OR. 


AMONG    LOTHIAN    FOLK. 


ANNIE    S.    SWAN, 

AUTHOR   Or    '  ALDEKSYOB.' 


1Rew  EMtion. 


CINCINNATI : 
CRANSTON   AND  STOWEC. 

NEW  YORK: 
HUNT  AND   EATON. 


EDITION 


)i^  book  is  published  by  us  ur>- 
der   special   copbracb   \sribl) 

MESSRS.  OLIPHANT,  ANDERSON  S.  FERRIER, 


^I),  Scoblar)d. 
r>ob  cl)ar)6ecl  bl>e  ori6ir>al  orbt>o^ra- 
pt>y,  \»rl>ici)  varie^  ^li^>t)bly-  frorr)  our 
Anjericai)  Sbarjdards. 

CRANSTON  &  STOWE. 


TO 

THE  DEAR  MEMORY  OF  HER    WHO  MADE 

THE  SUNSHINE  OF  THE  HOME 

THAT   WAS. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER 

I.    THE  BEATOtfNS  OF  CARLOWRIE, 
II.    ELSIE,     .... 

in.  THE  LAIRD'S  FOLK,      .  . 

IV.   WOKUL  CHANGES,  .  . 

v.  THE  MINISTER'S  WOOING,         , 

VI.    AT  TYNEHOLM,  .  . 

VII.    ELSIE'S  FAREWELL  TO  LINTLAW, 
VIII.    THE  LADY  ANNE  TRAQUAIR,      . 
IX.    MY  GRAND-DAUGHTER  I  . 

X.    NEWS  OF  ELSIE,  .  . 

XI.    LEAVING  THIS  WORLD  FOR  A  BETTER, 
XII.   SACRED  HOURS,  .  . 

XIII.    LYNDON  PRIORY, 

xiv.  MISS  RITCHIE'S  COUSIN  BETSY, 

XV.    BLIGHTED  HOPE,  .  . 

XVI.    TRAQUAIR,  .  .  . 

XVII.    DEAR  LINTLAW  AGAIN,  . 

xvin.  LADY  ANNE'S  WILL,     .  . 

XIX.    HOME,    .... 
XX.    CLEARING  AWAY  THE  MISTS,    . 
CONCLUSION. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  BEATOUNS  OF  CARLOWRIE. 

>IX  struck  on  the  big  old-fashioned 
eight-day  clock  in  the  wide  lobby  of 
the  farmhouse  of  Carlowrie.  The 
ploughmen  and  the  dairymaids  were  at  their 
porridge  in  the  kitchen,  and  their  blithe  chatter 
broke  the  stillness  of  the  house.  There  was 
no  sound  in  the  ben-end  but  the  click  of  the 
mistress's  knitting-needles  and  the  occasional 
falling  of  the  ashes  from  the  grate.  The  mistress 
sat  bolt  upright  in  her  arm-chair,  which  she 
had  drawn  close  into  the  window  to  catch  the 
fading  light  of  the  day  now  closing  in.  She 
was  a  woman  yet  in  her  prime,  of  tall,  spare, 
angular  form,  with  a  thin,  sharp,  sunburnt  face, 
keen  black  eyes,  and  a  mouth  which  looked 
as  if  it  had  never  learned  to  smile.  Her  hair 
was  iron-grey,  and  brushed  tightly  back  under 


io  CARLOWRIE. 


her  afternoon  cap,  a  composition  of  black  lace 
and  satin  ribbon,  relieved  by  a  bunch  of 
unnatural-looking  red  roses  in  front.  It  was 
not  a  becoming  head-dress,  but  Mrs.  Nanny 
Beatoun  had  never  (no,  not  even  in  her 
girlhood)  studied  the  art  of  dressing.  Her 
gown  was  wincey,  of  a  sober,  serviceable 
grey  colour,  and  the  long,  wide,  gathered  skirt 
was  somewhat  relieved  by  three  rows  of 
black  braid,  sewed  in  straight  lines  round  it. 
It  was  further  relieved  by  a  big  lilac  cotton 
apron  tied  round  the  waist  by  a  linen  tape, 
which  served  to  hold  the  sheath  for  the  knitting- 
needles.  Mrs.  Beatoun  knitted,  as  she  did 
everything,  with  rapidity  and  skill.  It  was 
her  boast  that  she  could  foot  a  sock  in  an 
evening  after  the  lamp  was  set. 

The  furnishings  of  the  ben-end  at  Carlowrie 
were  plain  but  substantial.  There  was  a 
sideboard  behind  the  door,  which  had  stood 
there  since  Saunders  Beatoun's  grandfather 
brought  the  first  mistress  home  to  Carlowrie. 
There  was  not  a  scratch  nor  a  stain  to  mar 
its  brilliant  polish,  and  it  certainly  was  a 
handsome  and  even  elegant-looking  piece  of 
furniture  in  spite  of  its  spindle  legs. 


THE  BEATOUNS  OF  CARLOWRIE.  II 

The  other  articles  in  the  room  were  in 
keeping  with  the  sideboard ;  but  the  bare  floor, 
though  as  clean  as  soap  and  scrubbing-brush 
could  make  it,  gave  the  room  a  cheerless  aspect, 
reminding  one  of  a  perpetual  cleaning  day. 
Mrs.  Beatoun  was  very  wroth  at  carpets  and 
all  other  species  of  floor  covering,  holding 
them  to  be  useless  luxuries,  as  well  as  harbours 
of  dirt  of  every  kind. 

At  the  last  stroke  of  six  the  mistress  rose, 
and,  crossing  the  passage,  pushed  open  the 
kitchen  door.  At  sight  of  her  the  ploughmen 
rose  with  one  accord,  and  slunk  out  by  the 
back  door.  It  was  one  of  Mrs.  Beatoun's 
rigid  laws  that  the  men  should  only  come  in 
to  their  meals  and  retire  whenever  they  had 
eaten  the  portion  set  before  them.  Woe 
betide  them  if  they  lingered  even  a  moment 
daffing  with  the  girls.  She  did  not  spare 
them  with  her  tongue. 

'  Get  the  plates  washed  up  an'  mak*  ready 
for  the  byre,  Peggie  Alison,'  she  said  severely. 
'  An'  you,  Jean  Gillespie,  gang  yont  the  road 
an'  see  if  the  gig  binna  in  sicht.  Guid  save 
us,  ye  donnert  craters,  d'ye  no'  see  the  tea  bilin' 
like  kail  in  the  pat  ? ' 


12  CARLO  WRIE. 


So  saying,  Mrs.  Beatoun  darted  towards 
the  fireplace,  and  whisked  the  brown  teapot 
back  from  the  blazing  log. 

The  girls  grimaced  to  each  other  behind 
her  back,  but  outwardly  preserved  a  decorous 
and  respectful  demeanour,  and  proceeded  to 
obey  orders  at  once. 

Mrs.  Beatoun's  will  dared  not  be  disputed ; 
she  ruled  with  a  rod  of  iron  both  within 
and  without  at  Carlo wrie.  Having  set  the 
maids  about  their  work,  she  retired  to  the 
ben-end  again,  and  began  to  set  tKe  table  for 
tea.  Four  o'clock  was  the  usual  tea  hour  at 
Carlowrie ;  it  was  only  delayed  to  -  day  on 
account  of  the  absence  of  the  master  at 
Ormiston,  seeing  his  brother  the  doctor,  who 
was  seriously  ill.  By  the  time  the  mistress 
had  got  the  tea  ready  the  rumble  of  wheels  in 
the  farmyard  proclaimed  the  arrival  of  the  gig. 
A  few  minutes  later  the  farmer  entered  the 
house  and  came  straight  into  the  ben-end,  for 
once  disregarding  his  wife's  injunction  to  wipe 
his  shoes  on  the  mat 

In  personal  appearance  Saunders  Beatoun 
was  the  very  antipode  of  his  wife.  He  was 
a  short,  burly  man,  with  a  broad,  red,  honest 


THE  BE  A  TO  UNS  OF  CA  RL  0  WRI&.  1 3 

face,  the  expression  of  which  was  kindliness 
itself.  He  was  of  a  gentle,  unobtrusive,  easy- 
going nature,  and  always  preferred  to  give  in 
to  his  wife  rather  than  have  any  words  with 
her.  Anything  approaching  to  '  flytin' '  was 
Saunders  Beatoun's  special  abhorrence. 

They  said  he  was  henpecked,  but  if* it  was 
true,  the  process  did  not  put  him  at  all  about. 
It  was  a  common  saying  with  him,  and  he 
generally  followed  it  with  a  huge  laugh,  that 
he  had  proved  the  grey  mare  to  be  the  better 
horse,  for  Nanny  had  made  Carlowrie  pay  as 
it  had  never  paid  before  since  the  name  of 
Beatoun  had  been  inscribed  upon  its  lease. 

1  Ye're  by  your  time,  Saunders,'  was  his 
wife's  greeting.  '  Hoo  did  you  find  Jeems 
Beatoun  the  day?' 

'  Jeems  Beatoun's  deid,  Nanny/  replied 
Saunders,  and  went  away  out  to  the  passage 
to  hang  up  his  whip  and  coat  and  hat  It 
seemed  to  his  wife  that  he  took  a  longer  time 
than  usual  to  do  these  things. 

'  Dear  me,  that's  unco  sudden,  surely,'  she 
said  at  length.  '  Come  awa'  to  yer  tea,  an' 
let's  hear  about  his  end.' 

Saunders  slowly  came  into  the  room,  and 


14  CARLO WR IE. 


took  his  accustomed  seat  at  the  side  of  the 
table.  His  voice  sounded  unsteady  in  the 
grace,  and  he  seemed  to  get  out  the  usual 
phrases  with  difficulty.  Then  he  began  to 
his  tea  without  seeming  inclined  to  give  his 
wife  any  particulars  concerning  the  death  of 
their  kinsman. 

'  What  hae  I  dune  that  I  shouldna  be  telt 
what  mainner  o*  end  yer  brither  had  ? '  she 
said  at  length,  with  an  ominous  toss  of  her 
head. 

'  Naething,  Nanny/  said  Saunders  absently. 
'  Jeems  Beatoun  deed  as  he  lived,  in  the  fear 
o'  God ;  stannin*  by  yon  bedside,  I  couldna 
help  pray  in'  that  my  last  end  micht  be  like  his.' 

Mrs.  Beatoun  kept  silent.  She  had  never 
liked  James  Beatoun,  but  there  was  some- 
thing in  her  husband's  tone  and  words 
which  made  her  somewhat  ashamed  of  that 
causeless  dislike. 

'  An'  the  bairn  ? '  she  queried  at  length. 

A  tear  stole  unawares  to  the  corner  of 
Saunders  Beatoun's  honest  eye,  but  he  hastily 
brushed  it  away,  as  if  ashamed  that  he  should 
be  so  weak. 

'  Puir  wee  orphan  lammie/  he  said  tenderly; 


THE  BEATOUNS  OF  CARLOWRIE.  15 

1  I'm  wae  for  Jeems  Beatoun's  ae  bairn  this 
day,  Nanny,  an'  what's  to  become  o'  her  the 
Lord  only  kens.' 

1  Has  her  faither  left  naething,  nae  pro- 
vision for  her  ? ' 

Saunders  shook  his  head.  *  The  practice 
has  dwindled  awa  ever  sin'  he  lost  his 
health  an'  that  Embro  man  cam'  gaspin'  for 
a  deid  man's  shoon.  I  question  if  there'll  be 
eneuch  left  to  pay  the  debts  an'  the  funeral 
expenses.' 

Very  grim  grew  the  face  of  tiie  mistress. 
She  had  no  quarter  for  those  who  could  not 
pay  their  way  and  lay  by  a  little  for  a  rainy 
day. 

'  Eh,  but  that's  like  a  Beatoun !  never  a 
thocht  for  the  morn  i'  their  heids.  An*  it 
hadna  been  for  me,  Saunders,  ye  wad  hae 
been  ooten  Carlowrie  long  ago/ 

1  Ay,  woman,  maybe,'  said  Saunders, 
speaking  at  random,  for  his  thoughts  had 
'travelled  again  to  the  bereaved  and  desolate 
house  he  had  so  lately  left 

'It's  a  pity  it's  a  lass  bairn,'  said  Mrs. 
Beatoun  at  length.  '  Laddies  can  fecht 
their  way  better.  Some  o'  her  mtther's  folk'll 


16  CARLOWRrtL. 


hae  to  be  socht  oot  It's  them  that'll  hae  to 
look  efter  her.' 

1  They  shut  their  doors  an*  hearts  for  ever 
on  the  puir  young  thing  because  she  stuck 
to  the  honest  lad  she  lo'ed,'  said  Saunders 
Beatoun,  with  darkening  brow.  '  They  shall 
never  be  asked  to  provide  for  Jeems  Beatoun's 
bairn/ 

1  Then  wha's  to  dae  it,  Saunders  Beatoun  ?' 
queried  his  wife  somewhat  sourly. 

Saunders  sat  a  moment  in  silence,  then, 
drawing  his  snuff-box  from  his  pocket,  took  a 
substantial  pinch,  as  if  to  nerve  himself  for 
a  coming  ordeal. 

4  The  bairn'll  hae  to  come  to  Carlowrie, 
Nanny,'  he  said  slowly,  but  with  considerable 
firmness. 

Mrs.  Beatoun  never  spoke,  which  was 
in  itself  an  ominous  sign,  for  in  general  her 
tongue,  as  the  neighbours  said,  '  waggit  at 
baith  ends/ 

She  rose  presently,  and  began  with  a  great 
clatter  to  gather  up  the  tea-things.  When 
they  were  all  carried  to  the  kitchen,  she  set 
the  lamp,  and,  drawing  in  her  chair,  resumed 
her  knitting.  Saunders  regarded  her  for  a 


THE  BEATOUNS  OF  CARLOWRIE.  17 

few  minutes  in  perturbed  silence,  then  ven- 
tured a  remark. 

'  Hae  ye  naething  to  say,  Nanny?'  he 
inquired  rather  meekly. 

'  Naething.  It's  a'  settled,  it  seems  ;  ony- 
thing  I  could  say  wad  mak'  nae  alteration  in 
your  plan,  I  fancy,'  she  replied  slowly. 

'  Hae  ye  ony  reasonable  objection  what 
way  the  puir  orphan  shouldna  come  hame  to 
Carlowrie  ? '  said  Saunders.  '  We  hae  nae 
bairns,  an'  we  hae  plenty  to  spare  for  man 
an'  beast.  What  a  wee  white-faced  lassie 
bairn  '11  need  will  never  be  missed.' 

*  It's  no*  that,  Saunders  Beatoun/  said 
Mrs.  Beatoun  sharply.  '  It's  the  upsettin' 
o'  the  ways  o'  the  hoose,  I've  never  been 
used  to  bairns,  an'  dinna  ken  what  to  dae  wi' 
them.  Besides,  James  Beatoun,  a  man  o' 
middle  age,  oucht  to  hae  haen  something  to 
leave  his  ae  bairn.  Him  an'  his. wife  aye 
cairret  their  heids  unco  high ;  see  noo  what's 
come  o'  a*  their  upsettin'.' 

Saunders  made  no  reply.  He  could  very 
well  have  resented  these  imputations  upon 
the  memory  of  his  brother  and  the  gentle 
wife,  for  whom  he  had  ever  entertained  a 


18  CARLOWR1E. 


species  of  wondering  reverence.  But  at  the 
present  stage  of  affairs,  it  behoved  him  to 
hold  his  tongue  for  peace's  sake,  as  he  had 
had  to  do  systematically  since  the  day  he  had 
brought  Nanny  Dalrymple  of  Windyweary 
home  to  Carlowrie. 

'  It's  a  wunner  to  me  ye  didna  bring  her 
hame  wi'  ye  the  nicht,  Saunders,'  said  she 
presently,  with  a  grim  smile. 

'  I  was  very  near  daein't,'  Saunders  ad- 
mitted. '  Nanny,  woman,  dinna  be  sae 
thrawn.  If  it  was  a  niece  o'  yours,  ye  ken 
brawly  hoo  welcome  I  wad  mak'  her  to 
Carlowrie.'  , 

'  Nane  o'  my  folk  need  charity,  thank  the 
Lord,'  snapped  Nanny;  though  in  spite  of 
herself,  her  heart  was  softening.  She  was 
not  bad-hearted  at  the  bottom,  but  she  was 
one  of  those  referred  to  in  the  Proverbs 
of  Solomon  as  contentious ;  and  Saunders 
Beatoun  had  had  his  own  to  bear  with  her. 

Just  then,  greatly  to  the  relief  of  Saunders, 
and  perhaps  to  his  wife's  relief  also,  the  door 
opened,  and  a  young  girl  entered  the  room. 
She  was  attired  in  walking  garb, — a  neat 
brown  merino  dress,  a  white  hat,  with  trim- 


THE  BEATOUNS  OF  CARLOWRIE.  19 

mings  of  brown  ribbon,  and  a  red  shawl 
wound  about  her  shoulders.  She  was  not 
more  than  sixteen,  but  was  womanly  in 
appearance,  as  the  eldest  daughter  of  a 
household  often  is  before  she  is  out  of  her 
teens.  She  was  not  pretty,  but  her  face,  with 
its  healthy  sunburnt  hue,  and  clear  bright 
hazel  eyes,  was  a  comely  one  to  look  at.  Her 
figure  was  still  unformed,  but  gave  promise 
of  dignity  and  womanly  grace.  She  was  neat 
and  smart,  down  to  the  very  shoe-latch  tied 
so  daintily  above  the  immaculate  white  stock- 
ing. She  carried  a  basket  over  her  arm, 
which  she  set  down  on  the  table  with  a  sigh 
and  a  smile. 

*  Dear  me,  that  is  a  brae  from  Crichtoun  up 
to  Carlowrie,'  she  said.  '  How  are  you  to-night, 
Aunt  Nanny,  and  you,  Uncle  Saunders  ?' 

'Verra  weel,  Christian  Dalrymple,'  said 
Mrs.  Beatoun  rather  ungraciously.  4  Hoo's 
a'  wi'  ye  at  Lintlaw,  an'  whaur  hae  ye  been 
trailin'  to  the  nicht  ? ' 

4  We're  a'  weel,  thank  you,  auntie,'  replied 
Christian.  4  Am  I  no'  to  sit  down  the  night  ? ' 
she  added,  with  a  little  humorous  smile.  *  I've 
been  at  the  Manse.  Mother  sent  me  ower 


CARLOWRIE. 


wi*  some  butter  and  eggs.  The  minister's 
hame,  Uncle  Saunders.' 

'  Ay,  an'  what  like  a  chiel'  is  he  when  ye 
get  a  better  look  at  him  ? '  asked  Saunders. 

'  Very  nice ;  but  oh,  Aunt  Nanny,  he 
is  sae  young.  It  will  seem  funny  to  see 
him  in  the  pulpit  after  poor  old  Doctor 
Rogers/ 

'  If  he  hae  the  grace  o'  God,  his  youth'll  no 
be  agin  him,  lassie/  said  Aunt  Nanny.  '  Sit 
down,  Christian,  and  gie's  yer  crack.  It's 
broad  munelicht,  isn't  ? ' 

'Ay,  it's  a  braw  nicht;  but  I  canna  bide 
lang,  for  we  milk  at  eight,  an'  mother  has  not 
been  so  well  to-day/ 

'  Hoots,  what's  twa  kye  ? — naething  ava*. 
H oo's  a*  the  laddies?' 

'  Fine ;  Davie's  rinnin'  on  his  ain  feet  sin'  ye 
were  ower  at  Lintlaw.  What  a  dear  wee 
bairn  he  is/  said  Christian ;  and  the  smile 
which  accompanied  the  words  made  her  face 
almost  beautiful. 

'Oh,  Uncle  Saunders,  mother  minded  me 
to  be  sure  and  ask  for  the  doctor.  Is  he 
keepin'  better  ? ' 

'  He's    gane,     my     woman/     said     Uncle 


THE  BEATOUNS  OF  CARLO  WRIE. 


Saunders  briefly ;  and  Auntie  Nanny  knitted 
away  more  rapidly  than  ever,  and  for  a  little 
there  was  nothing  said. 

'  I  am  very  sorry,  Uncle  Saunders.  Father 
and  mother  will  be  sorry  too,'  said  Christian 
at  length,  with  simple  but  earnest  sympathy. 
Yet  still  there  was  nothing  said. 

'  Wha's  come  to  keep  the  minister's  hoose  ? ' 
queried  Mrs.  Beatoun  suddenly. 

'  A  housekeeper,  auntie, — an  auldish  woman,' 
replied  Christian,  much  surprised  at  the  sudden 
change  in  the  conversation.  '  Mr.  Laidlaw 
told  me  he  had  no  relations  but  one  sister, 
married  to  the  minister  of  the  West  Church 
in  Dalkeith.  His  father  was  minister  there, 
uncle,'  she  added,  addressing  the  latter  part 
of  her  remarks  to  her  uncle,  whose  silent  and 
downcast  appearance  rather  distressed  her. 
'Well,  I'll  need  to  run,  auntie.  When  are  you 
and  uncle  comin'  ower  to  Lintlaw  ?  I  was  to 
be  sure  and  ask.' 

'  Maybe  on  Sunday  nicht,  tell  yer  faither,' 
said  Saunders.  Then  Aunt  Nanny  rose  to 
escort  her  niece  out  to  the  front  door. 

'  Tell  yer  mither  I'll  maybe  be  ower 
the  morn,'  she  said,  lingering  with  her  a 


22  CARLOWRIE. 


moment  on  the  moonlit  doorstep.  '  There's 
likely  to  be  changes  sune  in  Carlowrie, 
Christian  Dairy mple.' 

*  What  kind  of  changes,  Aunt  Nanny  ? ' 
asked  the  girl  in  surprise. 

'Jeems  Beatoun's  left  a  bairn,  ye  ken, — a 
lassie, — an'  naething'll  serve  yer  uncle  but  that 
she'll  come  here.' 

'  That  will  be  very  nice  for  you,  Aunt 
Nanny,'  said  Christian  innocently.  '  Poor 
wee  girl,  how  lonely  and  sad  she  must  be ! ' 

'  I  dinna  ken  that  it'll  be  very  nice  for  me, 
Kirsten,'  said  Aunt  Nanny.  '  It'll  mak'  an 
unco  change  i'  the  hoose.  Ye  maun  mind 
she's  no'  a  lassie  sic  as  you.  She's  a  delicate, 
peevish,  spoiled  wee  cutty,  that  greets  at 
naething.  She's  just  as  like  her  genty  mither 
as  she  could  well  be.' 

'  I  never  saw  Doctor  Beatoun's  wife,  but 
I've  heard  mither  say  what  a  sweet  woman 
she  was,'  said  Christian.  '  If  she's  delicate, 
she'll  get  strong  at  Carlowrie.  Ye'll  bring 
her  ower  to  Lintlaw,  Aunt  Nanny  ? ' 

'I'll  see.  Guid-nicht,  Kirsten.  My  respects 
to  yer  faither  an'  mither,'  said  Aunt  Nanny 
abruptly  ;  and,  closing  the  door  without  further 


THE  BEATOUNS  OF  CARLOWRIE.  23 

ceremony,  returned  to  the  parlour,  and  took 
up  her  knitting  again. 

'  If  it  had  been  a  lassie  like  Kirsten,  noo,  I 
wadna  hae  cared,  Saunders,'  she  said  at  length. 
'  She  wad  be  o'  use  to  a  body.' 

*  Folk's  just  as  God  made  them,  Nanny,' 
said  Saunders.  '  Woman,  could  ye  no'  say  ae 
guid  word  o'  the  Beatouns,  just  for  a  change  ? ' 

Mrs.  Beatoun  pursed  up  her  lips,  but  pre- 
served a  dignified  silence. 

'  Are  ye  gaun  to  send  onything  ower  to  the 
Manse?'  inquired  the  farmer,  changing  the 
theme  once  more. 

:  What  kind  o1  thing  ? ' 

o 

'  A  ham,  or  a  kebbuck  o1  Cheese,  or  some- 
thing; see,  Kirsten's  been  ower  wi'  an  offerin' 
o'  guidwill  frae  Dauvlt  and  Erne.  It's  the 
least  we  can  dae.' 

1  Effie  Dalrymple  wad  tak'  the  bite  oot  o'  her 
ain  mouth  to  gie  to  the  frem,  an'  she  never 
gets  ony  thanks  for  it,'  said  his  wife  grimly. 
1  No,  I'm  no'  gaun  to  send  onything  to  the 
Manse,  Were  the  new  minister  a  man  wi'  a 
family  it  wad  be  anither  thing.  There's  nae 
use  learnin'  a  young  man  an  ill  lesson.  Be- 
sides, when  we're  gaun  to  get  anither  mooth  to 


24  CARLOWRIE. 


feed,   we'll    need    to    be    mair    carefu*   than 
ever.' 

Again  Saunders  Beatoun  was  silenced,  this 
time  so  effectually  that  he  never  ventured 
another  remark. 

Whether  intentionally  or  not,  at  the  reading 
that  night  he  chose  that  portion  of  Scripture 
which  specially  enjoins  upon  wives  the  duty  of 
obedience.  Also,  his  prayer  was  to  the  point : 
'  O  Lord  God,  aince  mair  we  puir,  thowless, 
sinfu'  craters  mak'  bauld  to  come  afore  the 
footstool  o*  Thy  grace,  to  uplift  oor  hearts  to 
Thee  for  a'  the  guidness  an*  mercy  extended 
towards  us  this  day,  an*  a*  the  days  o'  oor 
earthly  pilgrimage  gane  by.  We  would  praise 
Thee,  O  Lord  God,  for  a  guid  ingatherin'  o'  the 
precious  fruits  o'  the  earth,  for  a  fu*  stackyaird, 
an'  plenty  for  man  an'  beast.  Mak'  us  gratefu', 
an'  dinna  let  us  withhaud  our  haund  frae  daein* 
guid.  There's  nane  o'd  oors,  Lord  God,  Thou 
hast  but  lent  it  to  us,  therefore  constrain  us  to 
use  it  aright.  We  would  thank  Thee,  O  Lord, 
for  the  dispensation  o'  Thy  providence  which 
Thou  hast  called  upon  us  to  bear  this  day. 
Lord,  we  praise  Thee  for  Jeems  Beatoun's 
life  an'  death.  May  it  be  a  solemn  lesson  to 


THE  BE  A  TO  UNS  OF  CA  RL  O  WRIE.  25 

us,  an'  when  oor  time  comes,  may  we  be  as 
ready.  Lord,  if  it  be  Thy  holy  wull,  gar 
Nanny  gie  ower  her  yaummerin'  about  Jeems 
Beatoun's  bairn.  Open  her  ear  an'  heart  to 
the  cry  o'  the  orphan.  An'  if  it  be  na  Thy 
wull,  then  be  pleased  to  grant  Thy  unworthy 
servant,  noo  humbled  afore  Thee,  grace  to 
bear  wi'  the  weaker  vessel.  While  at  this 
time  no'  forgettin'  the  Queen  an'  the  Prince 
Consort,  an'  a'  wi'  authority  under  Thee  an' 
abune  us,  we  wadna  forget  to  commend  to 
Thy  care  the  young  lad  Thou  hast  set  ower  us 
in  heavenly  things.  Gie  him  muckle  grace, 
as  muckle,  Lord  God,  as  will  keep  him  frae 
bein'  cairret  awa'  wi'  sinfu'  pride.  An'  seein' 
he's  like  to  be  a  burnin'  and  a  shinin'  licht  in 
Zion,  keep  his  flock  frae  thinkin'  ower  muckle 
o'  him,  mair,  maybe,  than  o'  the  Maister,  whase 
servant  He  is.  Lord,  we  a'  need  Thy  care. 
We  canna  stand  alane.  We  canna  dae  ony- 
thing  wantin'  Thee.  Hasten  Thy  kingdom, 
an'  abolish  the  black  an'  darksome  kingdom 
o'  Satan.  An'  a'  for  Thy  Son's  sake.  Amen.' 
Nanny  was  effectually  silenced  now,  and  there 
was  never  another  word  said  against  the  home- 
coming of  Doctor  Beatoun's  bairn  to  Carlowrie. 


CHAPTER  II. 

ELSIE. 

•HAT'S  to  be  done  with  all  the  furni- 
ture,  Uncle  Saunders,  and  father's 
books,  and  mother's  things  ? ' 
It  was  a  pathetic  question,  a  pathetic  scene 
altogether,  that  chill,  wet  October  afternoon  in 
the  desolate    house  of    Doctor    Beatoun   at 
Ormiston. 

Saunders  Beatoun  was  standing  in  the  middle 
of  the  dining-room  floor,  with  his  wet  great- 
coat buttoned  up  to  his  chin,  and  it  was  a 
question  whether  these  were  tears  or  raindrops 
on  his  ruddy  cheeks.  The  small  person  who 
asked  the  question  was  the  child  who  had  now 
no  home  on  earth,  except  the  one  to  which 
she  was  going  to-day,  and  where  she  was  only 
half  welcome  after  all. 

She  was  a  little,  slender,  fairy-looking  thing, 

86 


ELSIE.  27 

in  her  thirteenth  year,  though  she  looked 
younger.  She  was  very  pretty,  with  a  kind 
of  refined,  even  patrician,  beauty  not  common 
in  the  middle  class  of  life.  Her  complexion 
was  exceedingly  fair,  her  eyes  dark,  and  her 
hair  golden,  and  clustering  all  round  her  proud 
little  head  in  a  tangle  of  ringlets.  She  wore 
deep  mourning,  made  very  plain,  of  course ; 
yet  even  in  childhood  little  Elsie  Beatoun 
invested  everything  she  wore  with  a  nameless 
grace  and  becomingness.  It  was  her  heritage 
from  her  frail  mother,  in  whose  veins  had  flowed 
the  blood  of  one  of  the  best  Scottish  families. 

4  They'll  be  lookit  efter,  Elsie/  said  Uncle 
Saunders,  not  caring  to  tell  that  the  furniture 
and  the  books  would  need  to  be  sold  immedi- 
ately, to  pay  what  the  deceased  doctor  owed 
in  Ormiston  and  Tranent.  'An'  I've  telt 
Lisbeth  to  gather  thegither  your  mother's 
things  an'  pack  them  in  a  box,  an'  I'll  send  a 
cairt  for  them.  Weel,  are  ye  ready,  bairn  ?  it's 
nigh  four  o'clock,  an'  the  darkenin'll  fa'  quick 
the  nicht.' 

'  Very  well,  Uncle  Saunders,  thank  you,' 
said  Elsie  quietly ;  '  yes,  I'm  ready.  I've 
only  to  say  good-bye  to  Lisbeth.' 


28  CARLOWR1E. 


So  saying,  she  walked  away  demurely  to  the 
kitchen  to  bid  good-bye  to  the  faithful  soul 
who  had  taken  charge  of  the  motherless 
household  since  the  death  of  the  gentle  wife 
when  Elsie  was  nine  years  old. 

In  the  meantime,  Saunders  Beatoun  went 
out  to  the  gig,  and  took  the  waterproof  apron 
off  the  cushions,  and  tried  to  make  the  seat 
as  comfortable  as  he  could  for  his  little  niece. 
Presently  she  came  walking  out  to  the  door 
with  her  cloak  rolled  round  her,  perfectly 
calm  and  self-possessed,  only  she  was  deadly 
pale,  and  the  big  pathetic  eyes  had  a  shadow 
lying  in  their  deepest  depths.  Uncle  Saunders 
tenderly  lifted  her  into  the  high  gig,  and, 
tucking  her  in,  jumped  up  beside  her,  and  gave 
Jess  a  gentle  touch  with  the  whip,  setting  her 
off  in  an  easy  trot.  When  they  drove  down 
the  wide  picturesque  street,  past  the  quaint  old 
cross,  and  were  about  to  turn  off  into  the  road 
to  Ford,  Elsie  turned  and  looked  back  at  the 
old  grey  house  at  the  head  of  the  town,  one 
long  pathetic  look,  then  sat  very  still,  close  in 
at  her  uncle's  side,  with  her  head  down  to 
keep  the  bitter  rain  from  driving  against  her 
face. 


ELSIE.  29 

'  Elsie ! ' 

1  Yes,  Uncle  Saunders.' 

'Are  ye  cauld,  my  dawtie  ?' 

'No,  Uncle  Saunders,  but — but* — 

'  What,  my  lamb  ? '  said  Uncle  Saunders 
softly,  bending  towards  the  poor  little  mite 
cowering  at  his  side. 

'  I  was  just  thinking  how  the  rain  would 
beat  down  the  poor  wee  gowans  on  father's 
and  mother's  grave.  I  was  up  at  the  church- 
yard this  morning  before  you  came,  and  they 
were  so  bonnie  and  fresh.  I  was  glad. 
Mother  liked  the  gowans,  Uncle  Saunders; 
she  used  to  watch  for  them  in  the  spring.' 

'  Ay,  ay,  my  lamb,'  said  Uncle  Saunders, 
wiping  away  a  tear  with  his  wet  coat  sleeve. 
Somehow,  the  quiet  self-possession  and  com- 
posed talk  of  his  brother's  little  girl  troubled 
him.  It  was  unlike  a  child.  From  his  own 
experience  he  had  no  knowledge  of  the  ways 
of  children,  only  he  knew  that  the  bairns  at 
Lintlaw  cried,  and  lustily  too,  for  every 
childish  grief.  Go  into  that  stirring  house- 
hold when  he  liked,  one  or  other  was  sure  to 
be  greeting  about  something. 

'  Yer  heart's  sair,  Elsie  ;  could  ye  no'  greet, 


30  CARLO  WRIE. 


my  dearie  ? '  he  said,  with  a  tenderness  most 
touching  to  see  in  one  like  him. 

'Oh  no,  Uncle  Saunders.  I  was  father's 
little  woman,  and  I  must  not  cry.  I  was  to 
be  brave,  he  said  that  day  he  died,'  replied 
Elsie  gravely,  and  for  a  long  time  there  was 
nothing  more  said.  In  a  little  while  they 
passed  the  long,  sloping  village  of  Pathhead, 
and  thence  down  into  the  glen  at  Ford,  the 
fain  still  falling  desolately  from  weeping  skies. 
A  gale  during  the  previous  night  had  whirled 
a  great  number  of  the  leaves  from  the  trees, 
and  they  lay  thickly  on  the  roads,  where  they 
were  beaten  and  soiled  among  the  mud. 

Uncle  Saunders  urged  Jess  forward,  for  it 
was  getting  dark  already,  and  the  wind  was 
bitterly  cold. 

'What  a  long  way  it  is  to  your  house, 
Uncle  Saunders/  said  Elsie,  as  Jess  was 
walking  slowly  up  a  steep  hill,  lined  on  either 
side  by  spreading  beeches.  '  Is  that  it  over 
there  ? '  she  added,  pointing  to  a  big  square 
house  two  or  three  fields  distant,  facing  the 
road. 

'  No,  Elsie,  that's  Lintlaw.  There's  plenty 
wee  anes  there  for  ye  to  play  wi'.  Ye'll  see 


ELSIE.  31 

them  the  morn  at  the  kirk.  There's  Hew, 
the  auldest,  a  fine  strappin'  lad,  no'  his  equal  i* 
the  Lothians ;  then  there's  Kirsten,  a  douce, 
kindly  lass  ye'll  like  brawly;  then  there's 
Sandy,  wee  Dod,  an  Robbie,  an'  Effie,  an' 
syne  wee  Davie,  the  flooer  o'  the  flock.  Ay, 
it's  a  blithe,  cheery  biggin'  Lintlaw,'  he  added, 
with  a  sigh,  for  it  was  a  great  sorrow  and 
disappointment  to  honest,  big-hearted  Saunders 
Beatoun  that  no  bairnies  had  ever  come  to 
make  gladness  in  Carlowrie. 

'See,  Elsie,  there's  Carlowrie  noo,  an' 
there's  yer  "auntie  lookin'  oot  at  the  door.' 

Elsie  eagerly  raised  her  head  and  peered 
through  the  gathering  darkness  and  the  blind- 
ing rain,  to  see  her  future  home.  It  was  a 
low-lying  house,  snugly  sheltered  by  the  com- 
pact steading  and  the  well-filled  stackyard ; 
that  was  all  Elsie  could  discern  in  her  first 
glance.  Presently  Jess  stood  still,  as  was  her 
wont,  at  the  drinking-trough  in  the  '  yaird ; ' 
then  Aunt  Nanny  came  stepping  gingerly 
across  the  sloppy  back  doors  to  the  gig. 

'  Ye' re  unco  late,  Saunders.  I  was  beginnin' 
to  be  feared,'  she  said.  '  An'  this  is  Elsie. 
Bairn,  ye'll  be  half-deid.' 


32  CARLOWRIE. 


So  saying,  she  lifted  Elsie  from  the  gig, 
and  carried  her  in  by  the  back  door,  through 
the  kitchen,  and  into  the  ben-end,  where  she 
set  her  down  on  the  rug  and  looked  her  all 
over.  The  child  met  her  scrutiny  with  an 
answering  look,  then  very  slowly  turned  away. 
That  look  told  the  child  that  it  would  be 
to  her  uncle  she  must  turn  for  comfort  at 
Carlowrie. 

'  Ye're  very  like  yer  mither,  bairn,'  was  Aunt 
Nanny's  verdict,  for  there  was  nothing  of  the 
Beatouns  about  her  but  the  big  dark  eyes. 

'  Yes,  Aunt  Nanny.  Will  Uncle  Saunders 
soon  be  in  ?'  said  the  child.  'Will  I  go  up-stairs 
and  take  off  my  things  ?  ' 

Somewhat  discomfited  by  the  calm  and  self- 
possessed  demeanour  of  the  child,  from  whom 
she  had  expected  to  see  something  different, 
Aunt  Nanny  silently  assented,  and  led  the 
way  along  the  wide  stone  passage  to  a  little 
room  which  of  yore  had  been  a  store-closet, 
but  which,  in  anticipation  of  the  new  addition 
to  her  household,  and  in  order  to  save  the 
best  bedroom,  Mrs.  Beatoun  had  caused  to 
be  converted  into  a  sleeping  apartment  for 
Elsie.  It  was  very  small,  and  had  no  fire- 


ELSIE.  33 

place,  but  it  was  clean  and  comfortable  enough, 
and  had  a  cheery  little  window  which  looked 
out  into  the  farmyard.  There  Elsie  was 
left,  with  many  instructions  as  to  folding  her 
clothes  neatly  into  the  drawers,  and  as  to 
keeping  them  tidy  after  they  were  there.  Tea 
was  ready  in  a  little  while,  but  Elsie  ate  very 
sparingly ;  it  did  not  seem  as  if  her  appetite 
would  make  large  inroads  upon  the  larder  at 
Carlowrie. 

A  quiet  and  rather  dreary  evening  was 
spent  in  the  parlour,  Aunt  Nanny  knitting  as 
usual,  and  Uncle  Saunders  reading  the  news- 
paper, which  came  once  a  week  with  the 
carrier's  cart,  and  was  a  great  treat.  Elsie 
sat  on  a  little  creepie  as  near  to  her  uncle 
as  she  dared,  lest  Aunt  Nanny  should  take 
offence,  looking  gravely  into  the  fire,  or 
stroking  gently  the  sleek  grey  back  of  Jenny, 
the  old  cat,  which  was  the  most  comfortable- 
looking  thing  in  Carlowrie.  Aunt  Nanny 
forbore  to  ask  Elsie  any  questions  concerning 
her  knitting  or  sewing  abilities,  but  mentally 
resolved  to  provide  her  with  worsted  and 
wires  on  Monday  morning.  At  eight  o'clock 
precisely,  Aunt  Nanny  laid  aside  her  knitting, 


34  CARLOWRIE. 


and,  taking  down  the  big  Bible,  read  a  lesson 
to  herself,  as  she  did  every  Saturday  night, 
a  kind  of  preparation,  as  it  were,  for  the 
Sabbath  day.  Nanny  Beatoun  had  been 
brought  up  in  a  very  godly  family,  who  were 
rigid  in  their  attendance  upon  the  observance 
of  the  Lord's  day,  the  Fast  day,  and  other 
solemn  seasons  in  the  Kirk.  She  accounted 
herself  a  devout  Christian,  and  had  no  sym- 
pathy with  mirth  or  pleasure-loving  folks ; 
indeed,  she  had  on  more  than  one  occasion 
reproved  her  brother  David  at  Lintlaw,  for 
permitting  what  she  thought  unbecoming 
levity  among  his  children.  But  in  a  houseful 
of  high-spirited  rollicking  lads  and  lasses, 
it  is  not  easy  to  keep  them  in  continual 
remembrance  of  the  solemnity  of  the  Sabbath 
and  other  grave  occasions.  And  Lintlaw  was 
not  slow  to  tell  his  sister  that,  and  to  add  that 
she  knew  nothing  about  bairns,  nor  what  a 
difference  they  made  in  a  house.  Many 
prejudices  melt  away  under  the  sunshine  of  a 
baby's  smile. 

Elsie  Beatoun  was  much  awed  by  the 
solemnity  of  the  reading  at  Carlowrie.  Uncle 
Saunders  read  two  long  chapters,  and  then 


ELSIE.  35 

they  all  knelt  down,  and  he  began  to  pray. 
Elsie  tried  hard  to  follow  him,  but  very  soon 
lost  the  thread  of  what  he  was  saying.  There 
were  times  when  Saunders  Beatoun  forgot  him- 
self, and  was  carried  away  in  praying,  till  even 
Nanny  grew  weary,  and  wished  for  the  Amen. 

When  Elsie  lay  down  in  her  bed  that  night, 
she  wondered  whether  in  a  long  time  she 
might  grow  accustomed  to  this  new,  strange, 
solemn  life,  and  cease  to  fret  for  those  who 
had  loved  her,  and  whom  she  loved  in  memory 
still,  beyond  anything  on  earth.  She  slept 
soundly,  for  she  was  wearied  out;  but  she 
awoke  early,  to  hear  the  clatter  of  milk-pails 
in  the  dairy,  and  the  shrill  voice  of  her  aunt 
setting  the  maids  to  their  work.  She  rose  at 
once,  for  the  sun  streaming  in  at  her  window 
made  her  think  it  was  far  on  in  the  morning. 

She  went  first  to  the  parlour,  but  there  was 
nobody  there,  though  the  cloth  was  laid 
for  breakfast ;  so  she  stole  into  the  kitchen, 
which  was  empty  also.  She  was  greatly 
interested  to  see  the  porridge  bubbling  in  the 
big  pot  on  the  side  of  the  grate,  and  wondered 
who  could  ever  eat  such  a  great  quantity. 
After  having  made  herself  familiar  with  the 


36  CARLOWRIE. 


appearance  of  the  kitchen,  she  went  out  by 
the  back  door  into  the  yard.  The  men  were 
watering  their  horses  at  the  trough,  the  poultry 
were  making  a  great  disturbance  over  their 
breakfast,  which  Aunt  Nanny  had  just  scattered 
for  them  before  proceeding  to  superintend 
operations  in  the  byre. 

What  amused  and  delighted  Elsie  most  of 
all  was  a  big  good-natured-looking  sow,  with 
her  three  little  ones  at  her  heels,  snuffing  con- 
tentedly about  the  yard  as  if  quite  at  home. 
After  looking  her  fill  at  the  live  stock,  Elsie 
stepped  daintily  across  the  still  sloppy  yard, 
and  entered  the  garden  by  a  little  wicket  at 
the  side.  It  was  trim  and  tidy  as  could 
be,  and  there  were  plenty  of  flowers  yet, 
sweet-william,  bachelors'  buttons,  peppermint, 
southernwood ;  and  even  a  few  yellow  pansies 
and  sturdy  carnations,  which  had  braved  the 
storm,  grew  side  by  side  in  that  sweet  old- 
fashioned  confusion  which  modern  taste  does 
not  permit.  The  garden  sloped  down  from 
the  house,  then  verged  into  the  cows'  park, 
which  ran  almost  perpendicularly  down  to  the 
Tyne.  Elsie  could  see  the  little  river,  swollen 
by  recent  rains,  rushing  between  its  banks, 


ELSIE.  37 

which  were  fringed  by  drooping  willows  and 
graceful  alders,  relieved  here  and  there  by  the 
bright  clusters  on  the  rowans,  which  were 
very  plentiful  in  Crichtounden.  On  the  op- 
posite steep,  surrounded  by  sheltering  trees, 
which  were  now  tinged  by  the  sombre  russet 
tints  of  the  late  autumn,  stood  the  kirk  and 
Manse;  while  a  little  to  the  right  the  solid 
battlements  of  the  ancient  castle  of  Crichtoun 
seemed  to  keep  a  grim  and  faithful  watch 
over  the  peaceful  vale. 

Elsie  was  disturbed  in  her  rapt  contempla- 
tion of  this  picturesque  scene  (for  the  child 
had  a  keen  eye  for  the  beautiful  in  nature)  by 
the  shrill  voice  of  her  aunt,  who  had  caught 
sight  of  her  while  crossing  from  the  byre  to 
the  kitchen  door.  So  she  hastened  to  obey 
the  summons,  and  was  bidden  wash  her  face 
out  at  the  rain-water  barrel, — so  novel  a  place 
for  the  performance  of  the  toilet  that  the  child 
was  much  amused.  There  was  no  porridge 
eaten  in  the  ben-end  at  Carlowrie  on  the 
Sabbath  morning,  ham  and  eggs  and  tea  being 
provided  as  a  substitute.  When  breakfast 
was  over,  Elsie  was  provided  with  a  Bible, 
from  which  she  was  to  learn  the  fifty-third 


38  CARLOWRIE. 


Psalm  for  repetition  to  her  aunt  in  the  evening. 
She  found  it  difficult  to  fix  her  attention,  for 
her  eyes  would  wander  through  the  window 
to  the  pleasant  garden  which  lay  so  still  and 
sweet  in  the  fresh  sunshine  of  the  autumn  day. 
Before  she  had  committed  even  a  double  verse 
to  memory,  her  aunt  came  to  her,  telling  her 
it  was  time  to  get  ready  for  the  kirk. 

It  was  the  first  time  Elsie  Beatoun  had 
been  left  to  dress  herself  on  the  Sabbath  day. 
Ever  since  her  mother's  death  it  had  been 
faithful  Lisbeth  Fairlie's  duty  and  privilege  to 
see  that  the  only  child  of  her  mistress  went 
out  as  befitted  Doctor  Beatoun's  daughter,  as 
her  lady  mother  would  have  had  her  go.  Lis- 
beth had  an  intense  respect  for  the  memory 
of  her  gentle  mistress. 

However,  she  managed  to  complete  her 
toilet,  down  to  the  very  tying  of  her  bonnet 
strings,  and,  drawing  on  her  gloves,  went  away 
to  the  parlour,  where  she  was  joined  presently 
by  Uncle  Saunders,  who  wore  his  black  broad- 
cloth suit  and  a  white  neckerchief  in  token  of 
mourning  for  his  brother.  Elsie  could  not  help 
thinking  that  he  looked  better  in  the  rough 
homespun  tweeds  he  wore  on  week-days. 


ELSIE.  39 

'  Certy,  ye  are  a  braw  little  quean,'  he  said, 
looking  approvingly  at  the  trim  little  figure, 
— 'a  perfect  wee  leddy,  eh,  Elsie  ?' 

Elsie  smiled,  but  was  presently  awed  by 
the  apparition  of  her  aunt,  attired  in  all  the 
glory  of  her  Sunday  clothes.  Although  void  of 
taste,  Mrs.  Beatoun  liked  showy  and  expensive 
clothes,  as  was  seen  in  the  richness  and  stiffness 
of  her  changing  silk  gown,  with  the  big  brocaded 
flower  running  through  it,  the  massive  trim- 
mings of  her  drab  cloth  cloak,  and  the  profu- 
sion of  bright-coloured  feathers  and  flowers  in 
her  towering  head-gear.  Her  hands  were  de- 
corously gloved,  and  she  carried  her  Bible  and 
handkerchief  in  a  little  black  silk  reticule  hung 
over  her  arm  by  a  silk  cord.  She  looked 
severely  and  critically  at  her  niece,  made  a 
vigorous  but  vain  effort  to  smooth  the  refract- 
ory golden  locks  which  would  stray  out  below 
the  little  black  bonnet,  and  then  said  they 
would  need  to  go. 

'  I  should  hae  had  my  blacks,  Saunders ;  an' 
there'll  be  some'll  say  I  am  wantin'  in  respect 
to  your  brither  the  doctor,'  she  whispered  as 
they  went  out  by  the  front  door.  '  But  Marion 
Brown  in  Newlandrigg  said  she  couldna  pro- 


40  CARLOWRIE. 


mise  me  my  goon  this  week,  an'  it's  no'  likely 
I'm  gaun  to  bide  awa'  frae  the  kirk  for  what 
folk'll  say.' 

'  Surely  no',  Nanny,'  assented  Saunders  ; 
though,  looking  at  his  wife,  he  could  not  but 
think  that,  in  contrast  to  his  own  and  Elsie's 
sombre  attire,  she  looked  strikingly  gay.  It 
was  a  pleasant  walk  down  the  path  through 
the  cows'  park,  and  across  the  rustic  bridge 
which  spanned  the  river ;  then  over  the  stile 
and  up  through  the  dense  firwood,  and  along 
the  edge  of  the  glebe  to  the  kirkyard.  Just 
as  they  came  within  sight  of  the  gate,  the  bell 
began  to  ring,  a  sweet,  tinkling,  irregular  sound, 
which  could  be  heard  for  miles  around,  so  still 
was  the  air  of  that  pleasant  Sabbath  morning. 

'  Vender's  Lintlaw  folks  comin','  said  Aunt 
Nanny,  pointing  away  down  to  the  low  road 
winding  through  the  glen.  '  There's  Aunt  Effie, 
so  she  maun  be  better.  The  Dalrymples  mak' 
a  guidly  turn-oot  on  the  Sabbath,  Saunders.' 

'  Ay ;  Dauvit's  bringin'  up  his  family  in 
the  fear  o'  God,'  said  Saunders ;  then  fell  a 
little  behind  to  return  the  greetings  of  some 
neighbours. 

But  Aunt    Nanny   did   not  wait.     Taking 


ELSIE.  41 

Elsie's  hand  firmly  in  hers,  she  sailed  up  the 
broad  path  and  into  the  kirk,  her  silk  gown 
making  a  great  rustling  as  she  went  down  the 
long  passage  to  the  Carlowrie  pew.  Slowly 
the  worshippers  dropped  by  twos  and  threes 
into  the  kirk  until  every  seat  was  filled.  Elsie 
watched  her  uncle  come  in  near  the  end,  and 
behind  him  there  came  his  brother-in-law,  a 
tall,  stern-looking  man,  followed  by  a  sweet, 
motherly-looking  woman,  quietly  and  modestly 
dressed,  in  every  way  a  complete  contrast  to 
her  sister-in-law,  Mrs.  Beatoun  of  Carlowrie. 
Their  children  came  behind  them,  in  steps 
and  stairs,  as  people  said,  the  only  one  left 
at  home  being  wee  Davie,  who  was  just  able 
to  toddle  alone,  and  so  could  not  yet  be 
brought  to  the  kirk.  Elsie  Beatoun  looked 
with  great  curiosity  at  the  Dalrymples,  but  in 
her  little  heart  that  quiet  Sabbath  morning, 
there  was  no  foreshadowing  of  that  strange 
web  of  destiny  in  which  her  life  was  to  be  so 
strangely  intertwined  with  the  family  at  Lint- 
law.  Just  then  the  bell-ringing  ceased,  the 
minister's  man  brought  up  the  Bible,  and  then 
showed  the  minister  up  to  the  pulpit.  He 
was  a  young  man,  as  Christian  had  said,  but 

4 


42  CARLOWRIE, 


his  appearance  and  manner  were  calculated  to 
inspire  reverence  and  esteem.  His  fine,  open, 
manly  countenance  wore  an  expression  of 
devoutness,  and  as  he  looked  upon  the  faces 
of  his  flock  assembled  before  him  for  the  first 
time,  he  appeared  to  be  suddenly  and  deeply 
moved.  Contrary  to  the  usual  routine  of 
service,  his  first  words  were,  '  Let  us  pray,'  and 
the  earnest,  heartfelt  petition  which  followed 
filled  the  hearts  of  those  who  had  had  any 
misgivings  with  unspeakable  thankfulness  and 
joy.  Even  careless  ones  felt  stirred  by  these 
eloquent,  searching  words,  and  surely  the 
prayers  of  the  godly  people  in  the  parish 
would  avail,  and  the  new  minister  of  Crichtoun 
would  make  a  great  stir  among  the  dry  bones. 
The  whole  service  was  impressive,  and 
when  it  was  over  the  congregation  met  in 
twos  and  threes  about  the  kirkyard,  discussing 
the  merits  of  their  new  minister,  and  con- 
gratulating each  other  upon  their  good  fortune 
in  securing  one  who  was  so  evidently  a  man 
of  God.  When  the  Beatouns  got  out  to  the 
kirkyard,  they  found  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dalrymple 
and  their  two  elder  children  waiting  for  them ; 
the  younger  ones,  like  colts  let  loose  in  a 


ELSIE.  43 

field,  were  off  down  the  hill  at  a  gallop,  which 
greatly  exercised  their  Aunt  Nanny. 

'  Hoo  are  ye  the  day,  Nanny?'  said  the 
sweet,  pleasant  voice  of  the  mistress  of 
Lintlaw.  '  And  this  is  Doctor  Beatoun's 
wee  lassie.  Eh,  but  she's  like,  like  her  mither, 
Saunders.' 

As  she  spoke,  she  laid  her  hand  so  gently 
on  Elsie's  shoulder,  that  the  child  turned  to 
her  with  a  rush  of  tears  in  her  eyes.  Seeing 
that,  the  mistress  of  Lintlaw  bent  down  and 
kissed  the  fair  cheek,  little  guessing  that 
that  simple  caress  bound  the  heart  of  Elsie 
Beatoun  to  her  in  indissoluble  bonds.  Then 
Lintlaw  himself  spoke  a  kind  word  to  her,  and 
Christian  took  her  hand,  while  Hew,  a  big, 
strapping  lad,  very  like  his  handsome  father, 
looked  at  her  kindly  but  bashfully,  after  the 
manner  of  lads  of  his  age.  Then  the  three 
young  ones  walked  on  in  front,  while  their 
elders  came  behind  more  soberly,  discussing 
the  heads  of  the  sermon. 

*  Ye'll  come  to  Lintlaw  and  see  us,  Elsie  ? ' 
said  Christian,  in  her  kind,  sisterly  way.  '  It'll 
be  quiet  for  you  at  Carlowrie.' 

'  Yes,   thank  you,   if  Aunt  Nanny  will  let 


CARLOWR1E. 


me,'  replied  Elsie  quietly,  and  a  half  smile  of 
compassion  touched  for  a  moment  Christian 
Dalrymple's  lips.  She  was  quick  to  under- 
stand all  that  Elsie's  words  implied. 

*  We  have  a  bonnie  garden  at  Lintlaw,  an' 
a  little  pony.  Hew  will  give  you  a  ride  when 
you  come  ;  won't  you,  Hew  ? ' 

'Yes,  of  course,'  replied  Hew,  longing  to 
say  a  great  deal  more,  for  his  big  heart  seemed 
to  fill  at  sight  of  the  fair-faced,  desolate  wee 
girlie,  who  was  so  different  from  the  rosy- 
cheeked  healthy  lassies  whom  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  see  in  his  own  and  other  homes. 

1  I'd  like  to  come.  Father  used  to  give  me 
rides  on  his  pony.  It  was  called  after  mother 
and  me,'  she  said,  and  her  sympathetic 
listeners  saw  the  gathering  of  the  deep 
shadow  in  her  big  dark  eyes,  and  were  full 
of  sorrow  for  her. 

'  Do  roses  like  that  grow  in  your  garden  ? ' 
she  said,  suddenly  pointing  to  a  lovely  half- 
blown  bud  in  Hew's  button-hole.  '  There  are 
no  roses  in  the  garden  where  I  live.' 

1  Oh  yes,  plenty  of  them  at  Lintlaw/ 
said  Christian  blithely,  'all  growing  up  the 
front,  and  in  the  garden  too ;  you'll  see  them 


ELSIE.  45 

and  get  as  many  as  you  like  when  you 
come.' 

They  had  now  reached  the  bridge  which 
they  must  cross  to  reach  Carlowrie,  while  the 
Dalrymples  had  to  keep  along  to  the  road  to 
Lintlaw.  They  did  not  stand  long  talking 
there.  Mrs.  Dalrymple  asked  Elsie  kindly  to 
come  to  Lintlaw,  then  they  all  bade  her 
good-bye ;  and,  after  Hew  had  shaken  hands 
with  her,  he  took  the  rosebud  from  his  coat 
and  gave  it  to  her,  saying,  awkwardly  enough, 
she  might  have  it  if  she  liked,  as  there  were 
plenty  more  at  Lintlaw. 

Elsie  smiled  up  at  him,  and  said,  '  Thank 
you,'  very  simply,  and  so  was  forged  the  first 
link  in  the  chain  of  destiny  which  was  to  bind 
these  young  lives  so  closely  together  in  days 
to  come. 


CHAPTER    III. 
THE   LAIRD'S    FOLK. 

'OU  are  better  to-day,  my  love  ?' 

These  anxious  words  were  uttered 
by  the  lady  of  Tyneholm,  as  she 
bent  over  an  invalid  couch  standing  in  the 
wide,  low  window  of  the  drawing-room  at 
Tyneholm.  Upon  the  couch  lay  a  young  girl 
in  the  early  bloom  of  womanhood,  of  such  frail 
and  delicate  appearance  that  it  was  no  marvel 
the  heart  of  the  fond  mother  was  often  heavy 
with  unspoken  dread. 

Though  mother  and  daughter,  the  resem- 
blance between  them  was  very  slight.  The 
elder  lady  was  of  strikingly  youthful  appear- 
ance still,  though  she  had  been  a  wife  for 
five-and-twenty  years,  and  a  widow  for  ten. 

'  Yes,  mamma,  I  feel  strong  and  well  to-day/ 

M 


THE  LAIRD'S  FOLK.  47 

replied  Edith  Hamilton  almost  gaily.  '  Didn't 
I  always  say  only  Scotch  air,  and  above  all 
the  air  of  dear  Tyneholm,  would  restore  me, 
in  spite  of  our  wise  physician's  prophecies? 
Oh,  it  is  glorious,  glorious,  to  be  at  home  ! ' 

As  she  spoke  her  eyes  wandered  lovingly 
through  the  window  to  the  richly-wooded 
park,  where  the  ancestral  beeches  towered 
their  stately  heads,  with  gowans  and  butter- 
cups and  blue  speedwell  nestling  contentedly 
at  their  feet.  It  was  a  fair  picture,  for  through 
a  gap  in  the  network  of  bright  green  boughs 
there  was  a  lovely  glimpse  of  the  long  glen 
of  Crichtoun,  with  the  low-lying  slopes  of  the 
Moorfoots  in  the  distance,  looking  almost 
mystic  and  unreal  in  the  haze  of  the  summer 
morning. 

The  frail  daughter  of  the  house  of  Hamilton 
had  gone  in  quest  of  health  to  every  sunny 
spot  in  Europe  during  the  last  two  years,  but 
had  seen  none  so  fair  nor  so  dear  as  the  home 
where  she  had  spent  her  childhood,  and  which 
was  doubly  hallowed  and  endeared  by  tender 
memories  of  the  father  she  had  loved  so 
well. 

Mrs.   Hamilton  smiled.     She  was   English 


48  CARLOWRIE. 


born,  and  was  not  passionately  attached  to  her 
husband's  paternal  heritage. 

4  Edith,  you  will  never  outgrow  this  strange 
love  for  Tyneholm,'  she  said  banteringly. 
'  Here  I  always  feel  shut  out  from  the  world.' 

4  That  is  why  I  love  it  so,  mamma,'  smiled 
Edith.  '  Where  has  Keith  gone,  do  you 
know  ? ' 

'  Only  to  the  stables,  dear.  Keith  is  bored 
here  sometimes,  I  fancy.  Did  you  want  him 
for  anything  ? ' 

4 1  thought,  perhaps,  while  it  is  so  warm  and 
pleasant,  he  would  drive  me  out  a  little,  per- 
haps as  far  as  Lintlaw  ;  I  am  quite  wearying 
to  see  dear  Mrs.  Dalrymple.' 

*  I  will  send  for  Keith,  my  dear,'  replied 
Mrs.  Hamilton,  and  left  the  room  to  give  her 
order. 

Then  Edith  turned  her  eyes  once  more  to 
the  blue  sky  peeping  through  the  network 
of  leaves,  and  gave  herself  up  to  a  happy  dream 
of  restored  health  and  strength,  which  would 
enable  her  to  enjoy  her  youth  and  all  the 
advantages  of  her  rank.  Hitherto  Edith 
Hamilton  had  been  little  in  society,  for  her 
poor  health  demanded  quiet  and  retirement. 


THE  LAIRD'S  FOLK.  49 


She  had  been  the  unwilling  means  of  debarring 
her  mother  from  the  same  privileges,  for  Mrs. 
Hamilton,  though  disposed  to  gaiety,  was  a 
devoted  mother,  and  it  could  never  be  said  of 
her  that  she  left  her  invalid  daughter  to  the 
care  of  strangers.  She  loved  Edith  tenderly 
and  truly,  but  not  with  that  strange  passionate, 
yearning  affection  which  she  lavished  upon 
her  one  son,  the  heir,  nay,  now  the  Laird  of 
Tyneholm.  Edith  was  her  father's  living 
image ;  but  there  was  little  of  the  Hamiltons 
about  Keith.  He  was  liker  the  dark,  black- 
browed  Northumbrian  family  to  which  his 
mother  belonged,  and  in  his  veins  coursed  all 
the  wild,  passionate  blood  of  the  Cecils. 

He  came  noisily  into  the  house  by  and  by, 
up  the  wide  staircase  two  steps  at  a  time,  and 
bursting  into  the  room  in  a  fashion  which  sent 
the  hot  blood  tingling  to  his  sister's  pale 
cheek.  Void  of  nerves  himself,  Keith  Hamil- 
ton forgot  to  be  considerate  for  those  of 
others.  He  was  undeniably  handsome.  The 
fine  figure  just  setting  into  splendid  manhood, 
the  noble  head,  with  its  cluster  of  waving 
brown  hair,  the  dark,  perfectly-featured  face 
and  keen  black  eye,  with  its  subtle,  winning 

5 


So  CARLOWR1E. 


gleam,  of  these  any  mother  might  be  justly 
proud. 

'  Well,  Edith,  here  I  am.  What  can  your 
humble  servant  do  for  you  ? '  he  asked  bois- 
terously, yet  with  real  kindness.  Keith 
Hamilton  loved  his  frail,  fair  sister  with  a 
most  passionate  devotion. 

'  Thank  you,  Keith.  If  I  get  ready,  will 
you  drive  me  out  round  by  Lintlaw,  and  home 
by  Carlowrie  and  Turniedykes  ? ' 

'  Oh,  are  you  going  to  make  a  general  tour 
of  the  tenantry  to  assure  them  you  are  still  in 
the  flesh,  eh  ? '  he  asked  teasingly. 

'  Don't  tease,  Keith.  Be  a  good  boy,  and 
take  my  ponies,  and  promise  to  drive  steadily,' 
she  pleaded. 

'  Oh  yes,  with  these  high-stepping  quadru- 
peds we  will  crawl  along  the  roads  at  a  pace 
which  even  you  will  be  reassured.  Do  let  me 
take  Highflyer,  and  spin  you  through  the  air 
in  the  dogcart.  I  believe  it  would  make  you 
well.' 

4  Or  kill  me,  which  ? '  she  said  laughingly. 
'No,  no,  Keith,  I  am  not  equal  to  Highflyer 
to-day.  This  is  a  duty  you  must  perform,  and 
the  more  unpleasant  it  is  the  more  faithfully 


THE  LAIRD'S  FOLK.  51 

you  must  perform  it,'  an  argument  which  set 
Keith  off  laughing  unbelievingly  to  the  stables. 
In  something  less  than  an  hour  the  good 
people  of  Newlandrigg  were  greatly  exercised 
at  sight  of  the  equipage  from  Tyneholm  rolling 
swiftly  through  the  village,  and  to  see  that  it 
held  the  Laird  and  Miss  Edith  herself,  who 
they  had  never  thought  would  return  alive  to 
Tyneholm.  You  may  be  sure  their  progress 
was  watched ;  and  it  was  duly  reported  that 
the  ponies,  as  if  of  their  own  accord,  had 
turned  up  the  road  to  Lintlaw.  Mr.  Dal- 
lymple's  fields  were  looking  their  best.  It 
was  the  last  week  of  July  now,  and  there  was 
u  lovely  yellow  tinge  on  the  standing  corn, 
which  told  that  the  harvest  was  drawing  nigh. 
The  green  hedgerows  were  trim  and  well  kept, 
and  all  the  fences  in  good  repair,  for  Mr. 
Dalrymple  could  never  endure  any  untidiness, 
and  far  and  near  Lintlaw  was  known  as  the 
model  farm.  Up  near  the  steading  they  met 
the  farmer  himself,  scythe  in  hand,  away  down 
to  cut  some  of  the  long  grass  from  the  hedge- 
side.  Gravely  he  lifted  his  hat,  and  came 
forward  to  greet  his  Laird  and  his  sister.  The 
best  of  relations  had  ever  existed  between  the 


53  CARLOWRIE. 


Hamiltons  and  their  tenants ;  but  as  yet  it 
was  hardly  known  whether  Keith  Hamilton 
would  follow  in  the  footsteps  of  his  forbears, 
as  he  had  but  newly  attained  his  majority. 

1  How  are  you,  Mr.  Keith  ?  Miss  Hamilton, 
it's  a  sicht  for  sair  een  to  see  you  back  to 
Tyneholm,  an*  lookin'  sae  weel,'  he  said  in 
his  blunt  way.  'We  heard  yestreen  ye  had 
corned  hame.  Certy,  the  mistress  '11  be  a 
prood  woman  the  day.' 

'  Is  she  at  home,  Mr.  Dalrymple,  and  quite 
well  ?  and  Hew,  and  Christian,  and  all  the 
rest?'  asked  Miss  Hamilton. 

*  A'  at  hame  an'  a'  weel,  thank  the  Lord,' 
said  Lintlaw.  '  Davie  can  haud  his  ain  wi' 
the  lave  noo,  an'  he  was  but  a  bairn  in  airms 
when  ye  were  last  at  Lintlaw.' 

'  Dear  me,  is  it  so  long  ?  Well,  good- 
morning,  Mr.  Dalrymple,  we  will  drive  on,' 
she  said,  nodding  pleasantly. 

'  Won't  you  come  up  and  look  round  with 
me  while  my  sister  is  gossiping  with  your 
goodwife,  Mr.  Dalrymple  ? '  asked  Keith ; 
and  the  farmer,  nothing  loth,  turned  and 
walked  slowly  beside  the  ponies  while  they 
leisurely  ascended  the  slope  to  the  farm. 


THE  LAIRD'S  FOLK.  53 

Miss  Hamilton  got  out  presently  and  made 
her  way  on  foot  through  the  narrow  strip  of 
wood  to  the  front  of  the  house.  She  paused 
a  moment,  and  looked  over  the  low  wall  into 
the  pleasant  sheltered  garden,  which  was  a 
perfect  sight  to  see.  Gooseberry  and  currant 
bushes  were  bending  low  with  their  rich  har- 
vest of  fruit,  and  the  apple  trees  were  laden 
too.  There  were  plenty  of  roses,  as  Christian 
had  said,  and  the  old-fashioned  round  plot, 
with  the  apple  tree  in  the  centre,  was  a  perfect 
bloom  of  pink  and  white  and  deep  carnation, 
which  filled  the  air  with  a  delicious  perfume. 
Miss  Hamilton  smiled  to  see  the  familiar  place 
looking  so  beautiful  in  all  the  wealth  of  the 
summer-time,  and,  as  if  loth  to  leave  that 
picture  behind,  walked  but  slowly  towards 
the  house. 

The  forenoon  was  always  busy  at  Lintlaw, 
for  the  early  dinner  permitted  of  no  waste  of 
time.  When  she  turned  the  corner  she  espied 
upon  the  daisied  turf  a  little  golden-haired 
maiden  busy  making  a  chain  of  gowans,  to 
the  no  small  delight  of  a  chubby  little  urchin, 
whom  she  at  once  recognised  as  Davie,  who 
had  been  a  plump,  round-eyed  baby  the  last 


54  CARLOWRIE. 


time  she  had  been  at  Lintlaw.  But  she  was 
puzzled  to  know  who  his  companion  could  be, 
— not  Effie,  at  any  rate,  for  she  had  a  wild 
tangle  of  black  locks,  and  eyes  as  blue  as  the 
forget-me-nots. 

4  Is  Mrs.  Dalrymple  at  home,  my  dear  ? ' 
she  asked,  and  at  the  sound  of  the  sweet  voice 
the  small  maiden  sprang  to  her  feet ;  she  had 
not  heard  that  light  footfall  on  the  velvet 
turf. 

'  Yes,  ma'am,  she  is  in.  Will  I  tell  her  ? ' 
she  asked,  recovering  her  self-possession  very 
speedily,  and  speaking  with  a  grace  and  purity 
of  accent  which  somewhat  surprised  Edith 
Hamilton. 

'  If  you  please,  dear ;  but  first  tell  me  who 
you  are,  and  is  this  Davie  ? ' 

'  Yes,  this  is  Davie,'  said  the  little  maiden, 
with  a  fond,  proud  look  at  the  urchin,  who 
hung  shyly  back,  not  recognising  the  lady 
who  had  so  often  held  him  in  her  arms.  *  I 
am  Elsie  Beatoun ;  if  you  will  come  into  the 
parlour,  please,  I  will  tell  Aunt  Effie  you  are 
here.' 

But  at  that  moment  the  front  door  opened, 
and  Aunt  Effie  herself  appeared,  wiping  her 


THE  LAIRD'S  FOLK.  55 

floury  hands  on  her  apron,  which  she  had  not 
paused  to  throw  off;  her  sweet  face  aglow 
with  pleasure  and  surprise.  With  warm  words 
of  greeting,  she  took  the  Laird's  daughter  into 
the  parlour,  and  bade  her  sit  down,  then  called 
to  Christian  to  come  and  see  Miss  Hamilton. 

'  I  never  saw  ye  look  better,  Miss  Edith. 
Please  the  Lord,  ye'll  grow  strong  and  weel 
yet,  and  be  spared  mony  a  year  to  Tyneholm,' 
she  said  in  her  dear  motherly  way.  '  Is  Mrs. 
Hamilton  weel,  an'  the  Laird  ? ' 

1  Thank  you,  yes ;  Keith  is  here  with  me 
to-day.  I  left  him  outside  with  Mr.  Dal- 
rymple,'  replied  Miss  Hamilton.  '  There  is 
no  difference  upon  you,  dear  Mrs.  Dalrymple. 
Will  you  ever  grow  any  older  looking  ? ' 

The  mistress  laughed. 

'  A  blithe  heart  keeps  the  face  young,  they 
say.  But  come,  tell  me  where  ye  hae  been  sae 
lang.  It's  weary  wark  when  Tyneholm's  shut 
up,  Miss  Edith.' 

4  Rather  ask  where  we  have  not  been,  Mrs. 
Dalrymple, — France,  Italy,  Spain,  every  coun- 
try in  Europe,  I  think ;  but  I  have  never  seen 
a  land  like  bonnie  Scotland,  nor  a  place  like 
dear  Tyneholm.' 


56  CARLOWRIE. 


The  smile  lingered  on  the  sweet  face  of 
the  mistress,  but  her  eyes  grew  dim  for  a 
moment. 

'  Ye  are  your  father's  daughter,  Miss  Edith. 
Just  like  that  he  used  to  speak  o'  Tyneholm. 
Weel,  are  ye  gaun  to  bide  a  wee  noo  ? ' 

•  I  don't  know ;  mamma  is  so  restless,  you 
know,  and  she  has  had  to  live  so  quietly  on  my 
account  for  so  long.  By  the  end  of  August 
I  expect  we  will  be  off  to  Alnwick  Hall ;  but 
she  has  promised  to  bring  me  back  to  Tyne- 
holm for  Christmas.  There  is  nothing  in  the 
world  I  would  like  so  much  as  to  settle  down 
at  Tyneholm,  to  live  all  my  life  among  our 
own  people.' 

'  That  may  be  some  day,  Miss  Edith ;  the 
Lord  kens  what  is  best  for  us,'  said  Mrs. 
Dalrymple  gently.  Then  Christian  came  in, 
and  the  talk  turned  for  a  little  upon  the  family 
at  Lintlaw. 

'  They  are  all  at  school,  I  suppose ;  but  who 
is  the  little  girl  I  saw  outside  with  Davie  ? ' 
asked  Miss  Hamilton. 

'  That's  Elsie  Beatoun.  Ye've  heard  o' 
Doctor  Beatoun  o'  Ormiston,  Saunders  Bea- 
toun's  only  brither,  Miss  Hamilton  ?' 


THE  LAIRD'S  FOLK.  57 

'  I  saw  him  once.  He  had  to  come  when  I 
took  very  ill  three  years  ago  at  Tyneholm, 
before  Doctor  Abercromby  could  be  sent  for 
to  Edinburgh.  I  remember  him, — a  gentle- 
manly, quiet  man.  I  thought  he  did  me 
good.' 

'  He's  awa'  hame  noo,  Miss  Hamilton,  an' 
that's  his  orphan  bairn,'  said  the  mistress,  with 
moistening  eyes. 

Miss  Hamilton  rose  and  looked  with  interest 
out  of  the  window  at  the  little  maiden,  still 
busy  with  her  daisy  chains  on  the  green. 

'  She  looks  delicate,  and  is  wonderfully 
pretty.  Does  she  live  with  you  ? ' 

'  Oh  no ;  her  hame  is  at  Carlowrie.  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Beatoun  are  away  at  the  fair  at 
Dalkeith  the  day ;  that's  hoo  she  comes  to  be 
here.' 

'  At  Carlowrie ! '  repeated  Miss  Hamilton, 
with  a  slight  smile.  '  I  fancy  the  little  girl 
would  be  happier  with  you.' 

1  She  never  complains.  Nanny's  bark's 
waur  than  her  bite,  Miss  Hamilton,  an' 
Saunders  is  just  bound  up  in  the  bairn.  It 
wad  gar  ye  smile  to  see  them  thegither.' 

'  We  were  going  to  Carlowrie  this  morning 


58  CARLO  WRIE. 


too,  but  will  not  mind  when  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Beatoun  are  away.  Oh,  I  hear  the  ponies 
coming  round.  Come  away  out  and  speak  to 
Keith,  Mrs.  Dalrymple.  He  is  a  better  boy 
than  he  used  to  be ;  I  even  think  sometimes 
when  he  is  old  he  may  be  like  papa,  only  he 
has  not  papa's  love  for  Tyneholm.' 

'  Certy,  but  he's  a  braw  young  man ;  there's 
no'  his  equal  in  the  Lothians,  I'm  sure/  whis- 
pered the  mistress,  as  they  stepped  out  of 
doors  and  she  saw  the  Laird  in  conversation 
with  her  husband  along  at  the  garden  gate. 

He  lifted  his  cap  at  sight  of  Mrs.  Dal- 
rymple, and  came  forward  to  speak  in  that 
free,  frank,  winning  way  which  made  him  so 
great  a  favourite  with  gentle  and  simple. 
Elsie  sat  still  making  her  daisy  chains,  too 
much  absorbed  in  her  pleasant  task  to  take 
any  heed  of  the  strangers  with  her  uncle 
and  aunt,  and  too  well-bred  to  look  even 
though  she  had  felt  inclined.  But  when  the 
phaeton  was  drawing  away  she  looked  up, 
and  Keith  Hamilton  saw  her  face. 

'  Why,  Edith,  what  a  lovely  child !  Who  is 
that  ?  not  one  of  the  Dalrymples,  surely  ? '  he 
exclaimed. 


THE  LAIRD'S  FOLK.  59 

'  No,  she  is  an  orphan.  Her  father  was 
Doctor  Beatoun  of  Ormiston.  I  must  take 
her  down  to  Tyneholm  some  day  to  let 
mamma  see  her.  She  had  a  great  liking  for 
Doctor  Beatoun/  answered  Miss  Hamilton, 
and  the  subject  was  dismissed. 

Through  the  sunny  hours  of  that  long 
summer's  day,  Elsie  played  out  of  doors  with 
Davie,  who  almost  worshipped  her,  because 
she  made  such  a  work  with  him,  and  never 
tired  of  running  races,  or  building  houses,  or 
making  gowan  and  buttercup  wreaths  for  him. 
Elsie  Beatoun  was  thoroughly  at  home  at 
Lintlaw,  and  they  all  loved  her;  even  wild, 
passionate,  hot-tempered  little  Effie  would  be 
good  and  quiet  with  her,  there  was  such  a 
charm  in  her  smile  and  in  her  gentle  voice. 
But  to  Aunt  Effie  first,  and  then  to  Hew, 
Elsie  clung  with  the  greatest  devotion.  Her 
love  for  the  sweet  mother  partook  in  it  some- 
thing of  worship  ;  she  would  follow  her  about, 
looking  at  her,  or  even  sometimes  touching 
the  folds  of  her  dress,  in  a  way  which  made 
the  mistress  smile  often,  though  the  tear  was 
never  far  distant.  Elsie  looked  up  to  Hew 
just  as  she  would  have  done  to  a  big,  kindly 


6o  CARLOWRIE. 


elder  brother,  who  would  do  anything  and 
everything  she  required  of  him.  Whenever 
Elsie  came  to  Lintlaw,  Mr.  Dalrymple  would 
laugh,  and  say  there  would  be  no  work  got 
out  of  Hew  that  day,  for  there  were  races  to 
be  run,  and  funny  corners  to  be  hunted  for  in 
the  woods,  and  rides  on  the  pony,  and  a  dozen 
other  things  which  made  the  time  pass  swiftly 
and  pleasantly  away. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Beatoun  had  promised  to 
drive  round  by  Lintlaw  for  Elsie  on  their 
way  home,  and  Christian  put  down  two  extra 
cups  on  the  table  at  five  o'clock,  in  expecta- 
tion that  her  uncle  and  aunt  would  drop  in 
to  tea. 

But  the  hour  passed,  and  they  were  obliged 
to  take  tea  at  last,  wondering  much  what  kept 
them  so  long  at  the  fair. 

'  When  did  they  say  they  would  be  home, 
Elsie  ?  '  asked  the  mistress  when  it  rang  six. 

*  In  the  afternoon,  Aunt  Effte,'  said  the 
child.  '  Uncle  Saunters  took  the  new  horse 
in  the  gig,  and  Aunt  Nanny  wanted  him  to 
take  it  out  again.  The  new  horse  kicks  and 
runs  ever  so  fast,  just  as  Prince  Charlie  did 
with  Hew  down  the  road  this  morning/ 


THE  LAIRD'S  FOLK.  61 

Mrs.  Dalrymple  looked  rather  anxious,  and 
went  away  out  in  search  of  her  husband,  to 
tell  what  Elsie  had  said. 

4  Bless  me !  Saunders  micht  hae  haen 
mair  sense  than  tak'  that  kittle  beast  awa'  to 
Dalkeith  on  a  fair  day,'  he  said  rather  testily. 
1  There's  nae  sayin'  what's  happen't  them. 
We  canna  dae  naething  but  jist  wait  an* 
see.' 

'  They  were  to  be  hirin'  baith  for  the  bothy 
an'  the  hoose,  but  that  wadna  hae  keepit 
them  sae  lang.  The  Lord  grant  they  may  be 
safe,  Davie.' 

Another  hour  passed,  and  the  anxiety 
increased  at  Lintlaw.  Finally  Aunt  Effie 
despatched  Robbie  over  to  Carlowrie  to  see 
whether  there  was  any  word  of  them  coming 
home. 

Before  he  was  half  through  the  fields, 
however,  he  met  one  of  his  Aunt  Nanny's 
maids,  flushed  and  breathless,  running  to  tell 
the  news  at  Lintlaw.  Just  outside  of  Dalkeith, 
the  new  horse,  a  young  thing,  newly  broken, 
and  as  skittish  as  the  wind,  had  run  off, 
and  finally  overturned  the  gig  not  far  from 
Gallowsha'  Toll.  And  that  was  not  all.  The 


6«  CARLOWRIE. 


mistress  of  Carlowrie  was  killed,  and  Saunders 
Beatoun  lying  in  the  Harrow  Inn  at  Dalkeith, 
his  life  just  trembling  in  the  balance.  Half- 
an-hour  later,  the  Lintlaw  gig,  with  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Dairy mple  in  it,  drove  away  in  the 
utmost  haste  to  Dalkeith. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

WOFUL   CHANGES. 

midnight  Mr.  Dalrymple  returned 
alone  to  Lintlaw,  having  left  his 
wife  to  minister  by  Saunders 
Beatoun's  bedside  at  the  Harrow  Inn,  as  the 
physician  absolutely  forbade  that  the  injured 
man  should  be  moved.  Hew,  Christian,  and 
Elsie  were  sitting  up  at  the  kitchen  fireside, 
the  girls  white-faced  and  anxious,  for  this 
was  a  strange  and  terrible  thing  which  had 
happened. 

'  Oh,  father !  is  it  true  that  Aunt  Nanny's 
killed  ? '  was  Christian's  trembling  question. 

'  Ower  true,  Christian/  replied  Lintlaw,  in 
that  brief,  stern  way  common  to  him  in 
moments  of  deep  feeling.  '  I  hae  left  yer 
mither  to  nurse  Uncle  Saunders.  And  now 


63 


CARLOWRIE. 


get  to  bed,  bairns,  it's  efter  twal',  and  yell 
hae  to  be  up  betimes  the  morn,  Christian.' 

'  Is  Uncle  Saunders  very  sore  hurt,  Uncle 
Davie  ? '  asked  Elsie,  rising  with  the  others, 
but  lingering  behind  as  if  not  satisfied  with 
what  she  had  heard. 

'  Ay,  bairn,  his  life's  hangin'  by  a  threid, 
but  the  Lord  can  spare  if  He  will.  Let  us 
pray.' 

So  before  they  went  to  bed,  they  all  knelt 
down,  and  Lintlaw  prayed  briefly,  but 
earnestly,  in  words  which  all  felt  and  under- 
stood. Christian  was  weeping  when  they 
rose,  and  Hew's  eyes  were  not  dry ;  they 
wondered  to  see  Elsie  calm ;  the  big  dark 
eyes  were  dry  and  wide  open,  but  they  seemed 
darker  in  hue,  and  there  was  a  curious  con- 
traction about  the  mouth  which  told  its  own 
tale. 

'  Christian,'  she  said,  after  they  were  in  bed, 
'  Uncle  Saunders  won't  get  better.  People 
you  love  always  die.  See  how  father  and 
mother  died.  It's  no  use  praying.' 

4  Wheesht,  Elsie  ! '  said  Christian,  rather 
shocked.  '  If  it  is  God's  will  Uncle  Saunders 
winna  dee.  If  guid  nursing  will  dae  ony 


WOFUL  CHANGES.  65 

guid,  mother'll  mak'  him  well.  Oh,  Elsie,  how 
strange  it  is  to  lie  down  and  mother  not  in 
the  house  !  She  has  never  been  away  before.' 

'  What  would  you  do  if  you  had  no  mother 
like  me,  if  Aunt  Effie  were  to  die,  Christian  ? ' 
asked  Elsie  quietly. 

'  I  dinna  ken.  God'll  never  take  away 
mother,  Elsie.  What  would  father  and  a' 
the  laddies  dae,  no'  to  speak  o'  Effie  an' 
me?' 

'  God  never  asked  what  I  would  do  without 
father  and  mother,  Christian ;  He  just  took 
them/  replied  Elsie.  '  But  mother  was  thin 
and  pale,  and  always  ill,  not  like  Aunt  Effie, 
who  will  live  to  be  an  old  woman,  I  am  quite 
sure.' 

By  and  by,  when  Elsie  was  just  falling 
asleep,  Christian  turned  and  spoke  again. 

'  Elsie,  I  wush  ye  hadna  spoken  aboot 
mother  as  ye  did.  I  canna  get  it  oot  o'  my 
heid.  It  wad  be  awfu'  if  we  were  aye  oor 
lane  at  Lintlaw.  We  couldna  live  without 
mother.' 

'  Don't  be  thinking  about  it,  Christian,'  said 
Elsie  drowsily ;  '  of  course  Aunt  Effie  will 
live  to  be  old,  old,  I  know  she  will.' 


66  CARLOWRIE. 


Nevertheless  it  was  several  days  before  the 
haunting  fear  planted  by  that  conversation 
faded  out  of  Christian  Dalrymple's  mind. 

Shortly  after  breakfast  on  the  following 
morning  Elsie  was  missing  from  Lintlaw,  but 
they  did  not  trouble  about  her,  thinking  she 
had  gone  over  to  Carlowrie  to  see  how  things 
were  going  on.  In  the  afternoon,  however, 
Mr.  Ritchie  of  Scotstoun,  calling  to  condole 
with  his  neighbour  about  the  calamity  of 
yesterday,  mentioned  that,  driving  home  from 
Dalkeith,  he  had  met  Elsie  Beatoun  just 
outside  Eskbank  Toll,  and  that  she  had  asked 
him  the  way  to  the  Harrow  Inn,  saying  she 
had  walked  all  the  way,  and  was  going  to  see 
her  Uncle  Saunders.  And  from  that  day 
Saunders  Beatoun  had  two  nurses,  and  it  was 
a  question  whether  the  old  or  the  young  was 
the  more  gentle,  and  watchful,  and  efficient. 
During  that  trying  time  Elsie  Beatoun  was  a 
daily  marvel  to  Mrs.  Dalrymple,  and  to  all 
who  came  in  contact  with  her.  On  the  follow- 
ing Monday  poor  Nanny  Beatoun  was  buried 
in  the  kirkyard  of  Crichtoun,  while  her  hus- 
band was  lying  utterly  unconscious  of  his  loss. 
It  was  a  question  whether  in  a  few  days  the 


WOFUL  CHANGES.  67 

new-made  grave  would   not  need   to  be  re- 
opened to  afford  him  a  last  resting-place. 

The  funeral  was  largely  attended,  for,  in 
spite  of  her  peculiarities,  Mrs.  Beatoun  of 
Carlowrie  had  been  held  in  high  respect  in 
the  country-side.  Mr.  Dalrymple  and  his  son 
Hew  were,  of  course,  the  chief  mourners,  and 
they  returned  to  Lintlaw  greatly  saddened  by 
the  events  of  the  day.  Hew  went  over  every 
morning  to  Carlowrie,  and  generally  remained 
the  best  part  of  the  day,  seeing  that  the  work 
of  the  farm  went  on  as  usual.  And  at  Lintlaw 
Christian  did  her  very  best  to  fill  her  mother's 
place,  to  make  the  house  comfortable  and 
home-like  for  her  father  and  the  bairns,  crush- 
ing down  her  own  heart-longings,  so  as  to 
keep  the  others  bright  and  cheery.  Her 
father  did  not  say  much,  but  she  knew  from 
the  glance  of  his  eye,  from  the  way  in  which 
he  spoke  to  her,  that  he  was  well  pleased. 
Poor  Christian,  it  was  a  great  responsibility 
for  her  seventeen  years  ;  and  though  she  tried 
hard  to  manage  so  that  there  would  be  no 
difference  in  the  house,  she  saw  that  her  father 
was  heart-sick,  wandering  about,  just  lost 
because  mother  was  away.  And  so  strangely 


68  CARLOWRIE. 


in  that  summer-time   began   the  preparation 
for  the  desolation  of  future  years. 

For  many  days  Saunders  Beatoun  lay  sick 
unto  death  at  the  Harrow  Inn,  quite  uncon- 
scious of  the  gentle  ministrations  of  Aunt 
Effie  and  Elsie.  Yet  often  in  his  wanderings 
he  would  utter  the  child's  name,  and  always  in 
accents  of  tenderness  and  love.  Also  some- 
times he  would  speak  of  his  brother  James 
and  his  wife  ;  but,  strangely  enough,  the  name 
of  his  own  wife  never  passed  his  lips.  At 
last  there  came  a  day  in  the  last  sultry  week 
of  July,  when  Saunders  Beatoun  opened  con- 
scious eyes  upon  the  world  once  more,  and 
the  physicians  pronounced  him  saved.  He 
recognised  Aunt  Effie,  and  Elsie  too,  but  one 
thing  troubled  Mrs.  Dairy mple  not  a  little,— 
that  he  seemed  to  have  no  recollection  of  what 
had  passed,  no  curiosity  as  to  how  he  had 
come  by  his  illness,  no  idea  even  that  he  was 
in  a  strange  place  at  all. 

About  a  fortnight  after  the  turn  the  doctor 
said  he  might  with  safety  be  removed  in  a 
close  and  comfortable  carriage  home  to  Car- 
lowrie.  By  this  time  it  was  quite  evident  to 
Mrs.  Dairy  mple,  and  all  others  who  saw  him, 


WOFUL  CHANGES.  69 

that  he  would  never  again  be  the  man  he  had 
been.  In  fact,  his  mind  was  gone.  The 
terrible  blow  upon  the  head  had  softened  the 
brain,  and,  though  comparatively  strong  in 
body,  Saunders  Beatoun  was  now  but  a  child, 
— simple,  unconscious,  often  smiling,  but 
scarcely  talking  one  sensible  word.  This  was 
a  great  and  terrible  grief  to  the  family  at 
Lintlaw ;  but  it  was  hoped  that  the  return 
home,  and  perhaps  even  the  shock  of  his 
wife's  death,  which  as  yet  had  been  kept  from 
him,  might  work  the  necessary  cure.  It  was 
a  vain  hope.  They  brought  him  home  to 
Carlo wrie  in  the  calm  of  the  summer,  after- 
noon, but  it  did  not  cause  even  a  gleam  of 
intelligent  recognition  in  his  eyes.  When 
they  told  him  gently  that  his  wife  was  gone, 
he  only  smiled  and  answered,  '  Ay.'  Then 
it  became  a  question  what  was  to  be  done 
with  him  and  with  Elsie. 

'  I  will  stay  with  Uncle  Saunders.  He 
took  care  of  me,  Aunt  Effie/  said  Elsie,  her 
big  eyes  shining ;  '  and  I  will  take  care  of  him 
now.' 

After  due  deliberation  and  consultation,  it 
was  decided  that  Mr.  Dalrymple  and  Hew 


70  CARLOWRIE. 


between  them  would  manage  the  farm,  while 
a  sober,  trustworthy,  kindly  woman  from 
Gorebridge  was  engaged  as  housekeeper. 
And  in  the  meantime  Elsie  was  not  hindered 
from  fulfilling  her  desire.  So  there  might 
have  been  seen  at  Carlowrie  during  the  golden 
days  of  the  late  summer,  and  all  through  the 
autumn,  the  beautiful  and  pathetic  picture  of  a 
frail,  white-haired  man,  bent  and  feeble  before. 
his  time,  and  leaning  heavily  on  his  stick, 
being  led  about  by  the  slender,  fair-haired 
little  girl  whom  he  called  sometimes  Elsie  and 
sometimes  Nanny.  Sometimes  she  would  take 
him  across  the  fields  to  Lintlaw ;  then  the  faces 
of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dalrymple  grew  very  sad, 
while  Christian  would  rush  away  somewhere 
to  greet,  and  the  bairnies  would  look  with 
wondering  pity  at  the  wreck  of  poor  Uncle 
Saunders. 

It  was  a  strange,  mournful  life  for  little 
Elsie  Beatoun,  but  she  was  not  unhappy,  far 
from  it  Even  thus  early  the  faithful  perform- 
ance of  duty  brought  with  it  its  own  reward  ; 
only  it  made  her  grow  womanly  all  at  once, 
not  so  much  in  appearance  as  in  ways  and 
manner,  and  she  was  spoken  of  in  the  country- 


WOFUL  CHANGES.  71 

side  as  a  marvel  and  an  example  to  all  the 
young  people  round  about.  So  the  year 
waned,  and  when  the  chill  October  winds 
swept  low  over  the  barren  stubble  fields,  those 
who  loved  and  watched  Saunders  Beatoun 
saw  him  failing  every  day.  The  doctor  could 
do  nothing  for  him.  It  was  just  a  dwining 
away,  which  could  not  be  arrested,  and  which 
could  have  but  one  ending. 

Before  the  year  was  out  Saunders  Beatoun 
fell  asleep,  very  quietly,  one  Sabbath  morning, 
with  them  all  about  his  bed,  only  he  never 
spoke  a  word,  though  Aunt  Effie  thought  the 
last  look  bent  upon  Elsie  was  one  of  loving 
recognition  and  farewell. 

When  the  child's  task  was  over,  it  seemed 
only  natural  that  she  should  go  home  to  Lint- 
law.  There  never  was  much  talk  about  it; 
only  Mrs.  Dalrymple  had  put  the  question 
to  her  husband,  and  his  answer  had  been 
brief ;  its  very  brevity  told  her  his  heart  was 
deeply  moved.  So  in  one  little  year  what 
changes  in  Carlowrie !  ay,  many  more  than 
poor  Nanny  Beatoun  had  dreamed  of  when 
she  stood  with  Christian  at  the  door  on  that 
harvest  night  that  Elsie's  father  died.  What 


72  CARLO WRIE. 


money  Saunders  Beatoun  had  left,  also  the 
proceeds  of  the  roup,  which  took  place  in  due 
time,  belonged  by  right  to  Elsie.  David 
Dalrymple  took  it  in  charge,  a  sacred  trust 
for  the  orphan  child.  Hew  was  now  nine- 
teen, and  had  learned  farming  so  thoroughly 
under  his  practical  father  that  he  was  quite 
able  to  manage  a  place  of  his  own.  Car- 
lowrie  marched  conveniently  with  Lintlaw ; 
it  was  endeared  to  them  all  by  many  asso- 
ciations. 

The  Laird  was  willing,  nay,  urgent,  for 
young  Hew  to  try  his  hand,  so  it  came  to 
pass  that  by  another  Whitsunday  Hew  was 
farmer  of  Carlowrie  on  his  own  account 

'  I  am  glad  you  are  going  to  Carlowrie, 
Cousin  Hew,'  said  Elsie  in  her  quiet  way, 
when  they  happened  to  be  standing  together 
down  at  the  hedge  in  front  of  Lintlaw,  looking 
across  the  fields,  the  night  it  was  all  settled  ;  '  I 
can  come  sometimes  with  Christian  to  see  it.' 

'  D'ye  like  Carlowrie  that  weel,  Elsie?'  asked 
Hew,  looking  earnestly  into  the  lovely  face 
uplifted  to  his. 

'  Yes,  Cousin  Hew,  it  and  Lintlaw  next  to 
father's  house  at  Ormiston.' 


WOFUL  CHANGES.  73 


Hew  stood  a  long  time  in  silence,  looking 
over  to  Carlowrie.  He  could  just,  see  the 
gables  of  the  house  and  the  tops  of  the 
stacks  above  the  slope.  In  that  silence  there 
rose  up  before  him  a  fair  and  beautiful  pic- 
ture, in  which  the  slender  girl  by  his  side  was 
the  chief  figure. 

1  What  are  you  thinking  about,  Cousin 
Hew  ?  We  will  need  to  go  in ;  it  is  time  I 
was  putting  Davie  to  bed,'  said  Elsie  at 
length. 

'  I  was  thinkin',  Elsie,'  said  Hew,  bringing 
his  honest  eyes  back  to  Elsie's  face,  and, 
bending  from  his  tall  height,  he  laid  his 
brown  hand  on  her  slender  shoulder,  'that 
if  ye  lo'e  it  sae  weel  yell  maybe  come  some 
day  an'  bide  at  Carlowrie.' 

But  Elsie's  eyes  met  his  in  a  clear,  uncon- 
scious gaze,  and  she  just  turned  towards  the 
house  with  a  little  smile,  not  understanding 
yet  the  meaning  of  his  words. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  MINISTER'S  WOOING. 

evening  in  early  summer,  Christian 
Dalrymple  had  been  over  drinking 
tea  with  Mrs.  Macdougall,the  school- 
master's wife  at  Borthwick,  and  was  walking 
home  just  about  sunset.  When  she  got  to 
the  railway  bridge  above  Borthwick  Mains, 
she  turned  about  to  look  at  the  beautiful  pic- 
ture gilded  by  the  setting  sun.  On  the  brow 
of  the  hill  stood  the  mighty  battlements  of 
Borthwick  Castle  (where,  in  stormy  times  gone 
by,  hapless  Mary  Stuart  had  spent  one  night 
in  her  chequered  life),  the  picturesque  church 
and  schoolhouse,  and  the  bonnie  burnie  wind- 
ing its  way  through  the  vale  beneath.  The 
primroses  grew  thickly  on  the  green  slopes  of 
the  castle  bank,  and  hawthorn,  lilac,  and  labur- 

74 


THE  MINISTER'S  WOOING.  75 

num  in  Currie  Glen  were  all  in  flower.  When 
she  turned  again  to  go  on  her  way,  she  saw 
in  the  distance  a  figure  coming  towards  her, 
which  she  recognised  at  once  as  that  of  Mr. 
Laidlaw,  the  minister  of  Crichtoun.  Won- 
dering much  what  should  be  taking  him  so 
far  from  home  so  late  in  the  evening,  she 
went  forward  to  meet  him,  wishing  that  her 
cheeks  would  not  turn  so  stupidly  red.  Of 
late,  somehow,  Christian  had  got  to  feel  shy 
and  uncomfortable  in  the  presence  of  the 
minister. 

'Good  evening,  Miss  Dalrymple,'  he  said, 
lifting  his  hat,  and  offering  his  hand.  It  came 
quite  natural  to  everybody  to  say  Miss  Dal- 
rymple to  Christian  now,  for,  though  she  was 
just  as  frank  and  unaffected  and  kindly  as  of 
yore,  she  was  a  young  lady  now,  and  there  was 
a  certain  dignity  and  stateliness  about  her  which 
became  her  beautifully,  and  which  rather  awed 
those  who  did  not  know  her  well.  She  had 
developed  into  a  comely  and  winsome  young 
woman,  and  it  was  no  marvel  the  minister 
of  Crichtoun  thought  her  face  the  most 
beautiful  among  the  many  gathered  before 
him  in  the  kirk  every  Sabbath  day.  He  was 


76  CARLOWRIE. 


a  frequent  visitor  at  Lintlaw,  so  frequent, 
indeed,  that  long  ago  the  tongues  of  the 
Newlandrigg  and  Crichtoun  gossips  had 
coupled  their  names,  and  spoken  of  Christian 
Dalrymple  as  the  future  wife  of  their  minister. 
Christian,  of  course,  never  heard  any  of  this 
gossip,  only  somehow,  of  late,  her  life  had 
grown  different ;  or  rather,  developed  into 
another  fuller  and  sweeter  and  more  com- 
plete. As  yet  she  had  been  content,  not 
seeking  to  discover  the  wherefore. 

'  Good  evening,  Mr.  Laidlaw.  Are  you  for 
Borthwick  the  night  ?'  she  asked,  with  her 
pleasant  smile. 

'  No;  I  went  to  Carlowrie,  and  Hew  told  me 
where  you  were,'  answered  the  minister,  and 
said  no  more.  Again  Christian's  cheeks  grew 
red,  and  she  played  nervously  with  the  sprig 
of  hawthorn  in  her  hand,  picking  off  its  petals 
one  by  one,  and  letting  them  fall  in  a  snowy 
shower  to  the  dusty  road. 

'  Well,  I'll  need  to  go  ;  Elsie  was  to  come 
and  meet  me  after  milking,'  she  said  a  little 
hurriedly. 

'I  don't  think  Elsie  will  be  to-night, 
Christian/  said  the  minister,  her  name  falling 


THE  MINISTER'S  WOOING.  77 

quite  naturally  from  his  lips  this  time.  '  Hew 
told  me,  too,  that  Miss  Hamilton  was  up 
at  Lintlaw  in  the  afternoon,  and  took  your 
cousin  away  with  her  to  Tyneholm.' 

The  minister  fancied  a  slight  shadow 
gathered  in  Christian's  grey  eyes,  but  she 
answered  pleasantly  enough, — 

'  That  would  be  a  nice  change  for  Elsie. 
She  has  been  often  at  Tyneholm  since  the 
Laird's  folk  came  down  this  time.' 

'  So  I  understand.  I  think  it  is  rather  a 
sore  heart  to  Hew  when  Elsie  goes  to  Tyne- 
holm,' said  the  minister,  and  turning,  walked 
by  Christian's  side. 

It  was  quite  evident  that  he  had  come 
solely  for  the  purpose  of  meeting  her,  and 
somehow  the  knowledge  sent  a  strange  thrill 
of  happiness  to  her  heart 

*  Is  Mrs.  Thomson  and  the  bairns  at  the 
Manse  yet,  Mr.  Laidlaw?'  she  said,  referring 
to  the  minister's  sister,  who  had  been  up 
from  Dalkeith  for  a  fortnight  at  Crichtoun 
Manse. 

'  No ;  they  went  away  yesterday.  Walter 
is  Moderator  of  the  Assembly  this  year,  and 
Lizzie  wanted  to  attend  the  meetings  with  him.' 


78  CARLOWRIE. 


1  That  is  but  natural,'  smiled  Christian. 
'  How  like  Mrs.  Thomson  is  to  you !  Any- 
body could  guess  your  relationship.' 

'  So  they  say.  But  Lizzie  is  a  better  woman 
than  I  will  ever  be  a  man,'  said  the  minister 
frankly.  '  When  I  see  her  in  her  own  home, 
and  hear  of  the  immense  good  she  does  in 
her  husband's  parish,  I  wish  I  had  a  wife, 
Christian.  Single-handed,  a  minister  works 
at  great  disadvantage.' 

'  That  can  be  remedied  easily,  Mr.  Laidlaw,' 
said  Christian  slyly.  '  I  hear  tell  whiles  that 
there'll  be  a  flitting  from  Scotstoun  up  to  the 
Manse  by  and  by/ 

'  Miss  Ritchie  is  a  very  estimable  person,  but 
I  doubt  she  would  not  be  so  much  at  home 
in  the  Manse  as  in  the  dairy  at  Scotstoun. 
Besides,  though  I  summoned  up  courage  to 
ask  her,  she  would  probably  box  my  ears  or 
set  her  big  dog  after  me,'  said  the  minister, 
entering  into  his  companion's  humour.  '  I  am 
in  hopes  that  when  there  is  a  flitting  to  the 
Manse,  Christian,  it  will  be  from  a  different 
quarter ; '  a  speech  which  effectually  silenced 
Christian,  and  made  her  angry  with  herself 
for  teasing  the  minister  about  getting  a  wife. 


THE  MINISTER'S  WOOING.  79 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  cross 
roads,  and  there  Christian  stood  still. 

'  I'll  just  run  across  the  fields,  Mr.  Laidlaw,' 
she  said,  then  looked  along  the  Crichtoun 
road,  plainly  indicating  that  that  was  his  way, 
but  the  minister  only  smiled  his  quiet  and 
provoking  smile,  and  opened  the  gate  to  let 
her  through  into  the  field. 

'  It's  taking  you  off  your  way,  Mr.  Laidlaw, 
and  I  am  no'  feared,'  she  said  persistently. 

'  I  used  to  be  welcome  at  Lintlaw  at  supper- 
time,  Miss  Dalrymple.  Has  the  time  gone?' 
he  asked  a  little  gravely,  and  Christian  felt  a 
trifle  ashamed. 

'  You  know  fine  you  are  as  welcome  as  ever 
at  Lintlaw,  Mr.  Laidlaw/  she  said  quickly ; 
and  they  traversed  the  breadth  of  two  fields 
in  perfect  silence. 

It  was  an  eloquent  silence,  however,  for 
the  heart  of  each  was  speaking  to  the  other, 
for  Christian  knew  now  that  she  loved  the 
minister,  and  that  she  was  his  chosen  wife. 

'  Yonder's  the  new  moon,'  she  said  by  and 
by,  when  they  reached  the  summit  of  a  slight 
eminence  in  the  middle  of  the  biggest  field  on 
Lintlaw. 


8o  CARLOWRIE. 


It  was  rising  just  above  the  dark  pines  on 
the  brow  of  Crichtoun  Hill,  and,  even  as  she 
spoke,  a  faint,  wondrous  light  stole  through 
the  gloaming,  and  touched  her  sweet  face.  But 
the  minister  never  spoke,  and  again  Christian 
felt  embarrassed,  and  wished  she  was  safe 
under  the  roof-tree  at  Lintlaw. 

'  It's  the  first  time  I've  seen  it,  and  me 
hasna  a  penny  in  my  pocket,'  she  said  ruefully. 
'  You've  heard  it's  unlucky*  to  have  an  empty 
pocket  when  you  see  a  new  moon  for  the  first 
time  ? ' 

'  Yes,  I've  heard  it ;  never  mind,  7  have 
plenty.  It  will  do  for  both,'  answered  Mr. 
Laidlaw,  smiling;  then  Christian  walked  on 
again  this  time  with  quite  perceptible  im- 
patience and  haste. 

She  felt  that  something  was  to  happen  to 
her  to-night,  that  a  great  crisis  of  her  life  was 
at  hand,  and,  maiden-like,  she  could  have  flown 
away  from  it, — ay,  even  though  she  knew  it 
was  the  very  desire  of  her  heart.  Presently 
they  came  to  another  gate ;  once  through  it, 
they  would  be  in  sight  of  Lintlaw,  but  ere 
Christian  could  go  through  it,  the  minister 
laid  his  hand  on  hers,  and  gently  kept  her  back. 


THE  MINISTER'S  WOOING.  8l 


'  Why  should  you  run  away  from  me, 
Christian  ?  you  have  known  me  a  long  time 
now,'  he  said,  with  something  of  reproach  in 
his  tone. 

But  Christian  never  spoke,  only  stood  with 
her  womanly  head  bowed  a  little  on  her 
breast,  knowing  that  she  could  not  run  away 
any  more  from  the  fulfilling  of  her  God- 
appointed  destiny. 

After  what  seemed  a  long,  long  silence  to 
Christian,  the  minister  spoke.  His  words 
were  few,  and  perhaps  not  very  lover-like, 
but  they  came  from  a  heart  moved  to  the  very 
depths. 

'  Christian,  will  you  flit  from  Lintlaw  to  the 
Manse  for  my  sake  ? ' 

Christian  could  not  answer,  and  her  eyes 
were  blind  with  a  mist  of  tears. 

1  Have  you  nothing  to  say  to  me,  Christian  ? ' 
asked  the  minister  at  length,  moving  a  little 
nearer,  and  striving  to  see  her  downcast  face. 

1  I  am  no'  worthy,  Mr.  Laidlaw,'  she  said  at 
length.  '  How  could  /  ever  be  a  minister's 
wife  ? ' 

'Not  worthy!'  The  minister  took  the 
trembling  hands  in  his  firm  yet  gentle  clasp, 


82  CARLO  IV RIE. 


and  bent  his  manly  eyes  with  unspeakable 
tenderness  on  the  sweet  face. 

'  Nay,  it  is  /  who  am  not  worthy  to  ask 
you  to  share  my  life.  I  have  watched  you, 
Christian,  since  ever  I  came  to  Crichtoun,  and 
your  beautiful  contentment,  your  cheerful  and 
ever-ready  fulfilling  of  every  duty  in  season 
and  out  of  season,  has  many  a  time  made  me 
ashamed,  and,  through  that  very  shame,  led 
me  to  better  things.' 

'  Oh,  hush,  Mr.  Laidlaw  ! '  pleaded  Christian. 
'  You  praise  me  too  much,  indeed  you  do.' 

'  It  is  not  praise,  it  is  simple  truth.  Every- 
body except  yourself  knows  you  are  the  very 
sunshine  of  Lintlaw,'  said  the  minister,  with 
all  a  lover's  earnestness  now,  but  Christian 
only  shook  her  head. 

'  No,  no,  you  must  be  thinking  of  mother 
when  you  speak  of  me,'  she  said  softly. 

'  How  humble  you  are,  Christian !  and  yet 
I  need  not  be  surprised,  you  have  ever  been 
that.  But  come,  I  am  waiting  for  my  answer 
yet.  It  is  a  lonely  house  at  Crichtoun,  Chris- 
tian ;  will  you  come  ? ' 

Again  there  was  a  silence,  and  the  trembling 
hands  fluttered  in  the  clasp  of  the  minister 


THE  MINISTER'S  WOOING.  83 

until  one  released  itself,  and,  stealing  up  to 
his  tall  shoulder,  rested  there  content.  That 
was  Christian's  answer ;  so  the  minister  of 
Crichtoun  took  to  his  heart  the  wife  God  had 
given  him,  and  the  first  beams  of  the  young 
May  moon  witnessed  their  solemn  betrothal. 

Meanwhile,  at  Lintlaw,  there  was  great 
wondering  at  Christian's  protracted  absence. 
Little  dreamed  the  father  and  mother  of  the 
scene  being  enacted  up  at  the  gate  into  the 
Gallowlaw,  for  if  at  times  they  had  sus- 
pected that  it  was  Christian  the  minister 
came  to  see  so  often,  they  had  never  yet 
spoken  of  it  to  each  other.  It  was  close 
upon  ten,  and  Mrs.  Dalrymple  was  growing 
very  anxious,  when  the  front  door  opened 
softly.  In  the  parlour  they  could  hear  that 
Christian  was  not  alone,  but,  thinking  Hew 
would  be  her  companion,  they  did  not  trouble 
to  rise. 

'  Mother,  here  is  Mr.  Laidlaw,'  said  Chris- 
tian, pushing  open  the  parlour  door ;  then,  as 
if  forgetful  of  her  usual  courtesy,  she  left  him 
to  enter  alone,  and  ran  away  up-stairs. 

'  We  were  just  thinkin'  the  lassies  had  baith 
run  off,  Mr.  Laidlaw,'  laughed  the  mistress. 


84  CARLOWRIE. 


'  Elsie's  bidden  at  Tyneholm,  Miss  Hamilton 
sent  up  a  groom  wi'  a  note ;  an'  we  was'  maist 
despairin'  o'  seein'  Christian  till  the  morn ; 
whaur  did  ye  fa'  in  wi'  her  ? ' 

'  At  Borthwick,  about  two  hours  ago,'  re- 
plied the  minister ;  whereat  Lintlaw  laughed 
in  a  dry  way ;  in  some  things  he  could  see  a 
long  way  farther  than  his  wife. 

'  Bless  me,  an'  whaur  hae  ye  been  ?  at  Car- 
lowrie,  or  whaur  ? '  exclaimed  the  mistress. 

•  Just  walking  home  at  our  leisure,  Mrs. 
Dalrymple,'  said  the  minister.  '  I  have  been 
asking  Christian  to  walk  a  much  longer  way 
with  me.  I  am  almost  afraid  to  ask,  knowing 
what  she  is  in  Lintlaw ;  but  will  you  give  me 
your  daughter,  Mrs.  Dalrymple  ?' 

The  mistress  looked  at  him  incredulously 
for  a  moment,  then  her  clear,  kind  eyes  sud- 
denly overflowed.  She  could  not  speak,  but 
she  gave  him  both  her  hands,  for  oh,  was  not 
this  the  very  life  she  would  have  chosen  for 
Christian  had  she  been  permitted !  Then  the 
minister  stooped  down  and  touched  with  his 
lips  the  brow  of  Christian's  mother,  and  when 
he  spoke  his  voice  had  a  tremor  in  it. 

'  I  have  no  mother,  but  if  you  will  let  me 


THE  MINISTER'S  WOOING.  85 

fill  the  place  of  a  son  to  you,  I  may  share 
with  Christian  the  unspeakable  blessing  of  a 
mother's  love.  But,  Mr.  Dalrymple,  what  will 
you  say  to  all  this  ? '  he  broke  off  suddenly. 

'  I  say  God  bless  you  an'  my  bairn,'  said 
Lintlaw,  with  deep  emotion.  'An'  gin  she 
be  as  guid  a  wife  as  she  has  been  a  dochter, 
ye'll  never  rue  the  day  ye  married  a  Dal- 
rymple.' 

Then  Christian  came  in,  and,  rising,  her 
mother  folded  her  silently  to  her  heart.  Ay, 
that  was  an  hour  of  solemn,  deep  happiness 
at  Lintlaw,  for  what  bliss  can  equal  the 
betrothal  of  two  young  hearts  under  the 
blessing  of  God  and  the  approving  sun- 
shine of  a  parent's  smile.  Was  it  any 
wonder,  think  you,  that  that  night  Christian 
Dalrymple  could  not  sleep  for  joy  ? 


CHAPTER    VI. 


AT  TYNEHOLM. 

[T  was  a  pretty  picture  in  the  long 
drawing-room  at  Tyneholm  that 
pleasant  summer  afternoon.  The 
blinds  were  drawn  to  exclude  the  brilliancy 
of  the  sun's  rays,  and  the  atmosphere "  was 
cool  and  sweet,  being  laden  with  perfume  of 
the  flowers  which  adorned  every  vase  and 
old-fashioned  bowl  on  mantel  and  cabinet. 
At  the  piano,  a  new  instrument,  Keith's  last 
gift  to  his  sister,  sat  Edith  Hamilton,  with 
Elsie  Beatoun  by  her  side,  and  a  sheet  of 
music  on  the  rack  before  them.  A  little  aside 
stood  Keith  himself,  violin  in  hand,  looking 
down  at  the  two  with  a  very  curious  expres- 
sion on  his  handsome  face. 

«  Oh,  Elsie,  Elsie,  how  stupid  you  are,  dear  1 ' 


AT  TYNEHOLM.  87 


cried  Edith  laughingly.  '  Let  me  see  you  run 
up  the  scale.  No,  no,  wrong  again.  My  child, 
you  have  no  soul  for  music,  and  I  make  you 
over  to  Keith  as  a  failure.' 

Elsie  smiled  also,  but  a  flush  rose  to  her 
fair  cheek,  and  down  drooped  the  lashes  over 
the  big  dark  eyes,  for  there  was  a  suspicious 
moisture  in  them.  She  had  tried  so  hard,  and 
was  so  anxious  to  learn,  being  envious  of  Miss 
Hamilton's  musical  skill,  that  it  was  rather 
trying  to  be  told  she  had  no  soul  for  music. 
The  years  which  had  but  added  a  little  to 
Christian  Dalrymple's  dignity  and  womanli- 
ness, had  altogether  changed  Elsie  Beatoun. 
She  had  grown  considerably,  but  she  would 
never  be  a  tall  woman.  But  her  figure  had 
perfected  itself,  and  was  all  grace.  Her  face 
— it  was  the  loveliest  in  the  country-side — 
perfectly  featured,  exquisite  in  hue,  framed 
by  that  ripple  of  golden  hair,  and  lit  by  the 
solemn  dark  eyes.  It  was  no  wonder  that, 
looking  upon  her  beauty,  at  times  Aunt  Effie 
trembled  for  the  bairn,  for  oh,  is  not  beauty 
so  often  a  fatal  dower,  bringing  its  possessor 
either  to  sweetest  happiness  or  keenest  woe  ? 
She  was  plainly  dressed  in  her  Sabbath  gown, 


88  CARLOWRIE. 


a  soft  grey  merino,  with  a  white  ruffle  at  the 
throat,  and  in  a  moment  of  caprice  Edith  had 
fastened  a  blush  rose  at  her  throat,  which 
rivalled  the  colour  in  the  cheek  of  the  wearer. 
Strange  and  unaccountable  was  the  deep  love 
which  Edith  Hamilton  had  for  Elsie  Bea- 
toun,  and,  with  the  capriciousness  so  often 
noticeable  in  persons  of  delicate  health,  she 
would  have  her  at  Tyneholm  in  season  and 
out  of  season,  often  against  Mrs.  Dalrymple's 
will. 

'That  is  too  bad,  isn't  it,  Miss  Beatoun?' 
said  Keith,  who  had  made  so  close  and 
frequent  a  study  of  that  sweet  face  that  he 
could  read  every  varying  expression.  '  Never 
mind ;  some  day  you  will  be  able  to  play  even 
better  than  Edith.  I  am  a  faithful  prophet.** 

Elsie  smiled  again,  and  rose  from  her  chair. 

'  I  will  need  to  be  going  away  home,  Miss 
Edith,'  she  said  ;  '  I  have  stayed  too  long.  I 
am  afraid  Aunt  Effie  will  be  vexed.1 

'  Shall  I  come  and  make  peace  for  you, 
dear  ?  Tell  Aunt  Effie  to  reserve  her  scold- 
ing for  me,  for  I  am  coming  to  see  her  to- 
morrow. If  you  look  at  her  with  these  eyes, 
you  mite,  all  her  anger,  if  there  is  such  a 


AT  TYNEHOLM.  89 


thing  in  Mrs.  Dalrymple's  nature,  will  vanish 
into  thin  air/  said  Edith,  and,  with  her  usual 
impulsiveness,  she  took  the  flower-like  face  in 
her  white  hands  and  kissed  it  fondly.  I  am 
bound  to  say  that  Keith  looked  as  if  he  would 
have  liked  to  follow  her  example. 

As  a  matter  of  course  Keith  put  on  his  cap 
and  went  off  to  see  Elsie  safely  home.  A  few 
minutes  after  they  were  gone  Mrs.  Hamilton 
came  into  the  drawing-room. 

4  Elsie  is  away,  mamma.     Knowing  you  were 
lying  down  we  did  not  disturb  you/  said  Edith. 
'  And    where    is    Keith  ? '    inquired    Mrs. 
Hamilton  a  little  sharply. 

1  Away  with  her,  of  course.  Keith  is  a 
gentleman,  and  would  not  allow  even  Elsie 
to  go  home  without  an  escort' 

'  Just  so/  said  Mrs.  Hamilton  dryly.     '  I  do 
not  want  to  hurt  you,  Edith,  but  Elsie  Beatoun 
must  not  come  so  often  here.' 
'  Why,  mamma  ? ' 

'  You  should  not  require  to  ask,  Edith.  The 
girl  is  very  pretty  and  winning  in  her  ways. 
Keith  is  a  young  man,  and,  like  the  Cecils, 
hot-blooded  and  impulsive.  Need  I  say  any 
more  ? ' 


90  CARLOWRIE. 


'  Why,  mamma,  are  you  afraid  that  Keith 
falls  in  love  with  Elsie  ?' 

'  He  will,  if  indeed  he  is  not  already  in  love 
with  her.  What  else  do  you  suppose  makes 
him  so  willing  to  come  here,  where  formerly 
it  needed  the  utmost  persuasion  to  induce  him 
to  accompany  us  ? ' 

Edith  became  silent  and  thoughtful.  There 
was  truth  in  her  mother's  words,  and  there 
were  many  things,  trifles  in  themselves,  but 
conclusive,  which  rose  up  in  her  mind  to  con- 
firm  it. 

Pride  of  birth  was  not  very  strong  in  Edith 
Hamilton's  nature,  and  it  did  not  seem  to  her 
a  very  undesirable  thing  that  Keith  should 
love  and  even  marry  Elsie. 

'  Do  you  not  love  Elsie,  mamma  ? '  she 
asked. 

'  I  do.  It  would  be  impossible  to  be  beside 
her  and  not  love  her.  That  is  where  the 
greatest  danger  lies.' 

'  Poor  Elsie !  is  she  to  be  punished  because 
she  is  so  lovely  and  winsome  ?  She  would 
make  a  sweet  mistress  of  Tyneholm,  mamma. 
I  am  sure  she  is  a  perfect  gentlewoman  in 
mind  and  manners.' 


AT  TYNEHOLM.  91 


'  Edith  ! '  Mrs.  Hamilton's  tone  was  very 
stern,  and  her  face  grew  dark  with  passion. 
4  You  forget  what  you  are  saying.  Do  not  let 
your  absurd  fancy  for  this  daughter  of  the 
common  people  make  you  forget  what  is  due 
to  your  rank.  There  is  greater  danger  than 
I  thought,  seeing  you  would  be  inclined  to 
encourage  Keith  in  this  folly.' 

'  How  proud  you  are,  mamma,'  said  Edith. 
'  You  will  be  difficult  to  please  with  a  wife  for 
Keith.  Of  course  I  was  only  joking;  and  I 
am  sure  the  thought  of  making  Elsie  his  wife 
is  as  far  from  Keith's  mind  as  it  is  from  yours. 
Besides,  I  believe  she  is  engaged,  or  nearly 
so,  to  Hew  Dalrymple/ 

'  That  is  the  husband  for  her,  Edith,'  said 
Mrs.  Hamilton,  with  a  breath  of  relief.  '  He 
is  a  fine,  manly  fellow,  and  she  will  be  happiest 
among  her  own  people.  As  a  rule,  unequal 
marriages  are  only  productive  of  misery  and 
discontent.' 

1 1  believe  you  are  right,  mamma.  But  come, 
tell  me  to  what  stately  home,  Oxenfoord  or 
Prestonhall,  Elphinstone  or  Edmonstone,  would 
you  like  to  see  Keith  go  a-wooing  ? '  asked 
Edith  playfully. 


92  CARLOWR1E. 


4  If  Keith  will  have  a  Scotch  wife,  he  will 
find  the  one  I  love  best  at  Woodhouselee,' 
smiled  Mrs.  Hamilton.  '  But  the  wife  I  would 
choose  for  him  is  over  the  border.' 

'  Oh  yes,  at  Alnwick  Hall.  But  Florence 
Cecil  will  never  look  at  our  Keith.  She  just 
laughs  and  makes  fun  of  him.' 

'  Ah,  but  the  lightest  heart  has  often  deepest 
feelings,  Edith.  But  come,  we  have  had 
enough  of  this  talk.  I  hope  and  pray  that 
Keith  will  be  guided  in  his  choice.  We  have 
an  invitation  to  dine  at  Arniston  next  week. 
Shall  we  postpone  our  departure  for  the  south 
for  a  fortnight  ? ' 

1  I  shall  only  be  too  willing,  mamma,'  said 
Edith.  '  Anything  to  prolong  our  stay  at 
Tyneholm.' 

While  the  Laird  of  Tyneholm's  settlement 
in  life  was  thus  being  discussed  by  his  mother 
and  sister,  he  was  walking  home  by  Elsie 
Beatoun's  side  in  the  sweet  summer  gloaming, 
and  the  expression  on  his  handsome  face 
was  not  one  which  would  have  reassured  his 
mother's  heart  had  she  seen  it.  As  for  Elsie, 
she  was  serenely  unconscious  that  she  was  of 
more  than  ordinary  interest  to  the  Laird.  She 


AT  TYNEHOLM.  93 


thought  it  was  out  of  the  kindliness  of  his 
nature  that  he  walked  home  with  her.  As 
yet  her  heart  was  unawakened, — utterly  uncon- 
scious of  her  own  power, — and  therein  lay  one 
of  her  greatest  charms.  She  was  a  child  yet 
in  everything  but  years. 

Between  the  girls  at  Lintlaw  there  never 
was  any  foolish  talk  about  lovers  and  marriage. 
Christian's  nature  was  too  sound  and  health- 
ful, and  she  had  enough  to  do  with  the  sober 
working  realities  of  life,  to  occupy  her  mind 
with  dreams  and  fancies.  But  she  and  Elsie 
also  had  their  own  ideal  of  married  life,  which 
by  example  and  precept  they  had  been  taught 
to  regard  as  the  highest  and  holiest  and  most 
sacred  of  human  relationships,  about  which  it 
was  something  like  sacrilege  to  jest.  Such 
had  been  the  teaching  of  the  mistress  of 
Lintlaw. 

Keith  Hamilton  talked  to  Elsie  Beatoun  as 
he  might  have  done  to  any  of  his  sisters 
friends,  with  courtesy  and  deference,  which 
did  not  surprise  Elsie,  for  she  had  a  strong 
pride  of  her  own,  and  would  have  resented 
anything  like  patronage  or  familiarity  from 
Keith  Hamilton. 


94 


CARLOWRIE. 


She  enjoyed  her  walk,  for  he  told  her  about 
what  he  had  seen  in  the  far  lands  he  had 
travelled  in,  and  also  spoke  much  of  London, 
which  Elsie  had  a  strange  desire  to  see.  They 
had  come  through  the  fields,  of  course,  and 
just  at  the  entrance  to  the  Lady's  Road,  a 
leafy  lane  which  skirted  the  fields  of  Carlowrie, 
and  led  straight  up  to  Lintlaw,  who  should 
they  meet  but  Hew  Dairy mple  with  his  collie 
at  his  heels. 

'  I  was  coming  to  Tyneholm  for  ye,  Elsie,' 
he  said,  lifting  his  cap  to  the  Laird ;  and 
Elsie,  looking  at  Hew,  wondered  what  had 
made  him  look  so  vexed  and  stern.  '  Mother 
bade  me.  She  looked  for  ye  in  the  morninV 

1  It  was  our  fault,  Edith's  and  mine, 
Dalrymple,'  said  the  Laird  gaily.  '  You  must 
excuse  us.  Tell  Mrs.  Dalrymple  she  must 
not  grudge  us  a  loan  of  the  Flower  of 
Lintlaw.' 

Hew  scarcely  smiled  at  the  Laird's  speech. 
Apart  from  the  fact  that  it  was  not  compli- 
mentary to  his  own  sisters,  he  resented  this 
calm  proprietorship  over  Elsie,  for  did  she  not 
belong  to  them  ?  had  they  not  loved  and 
cared  for  her  longest,  and  most  faithfully  ? 


AT  TYNEHOLM.  95 


'  I'll  take  Elsie  home,  Mr.  Hamilton,'  he 
said  quite  gravely ;  and  the  Laird  bit  his  lips, 
for  the  words  were  a  distinct  dismissal. 

These  two  young  men  were  rivals,  and 
each  knew  it.  Truly  this  love  works  strange 
havoc  in  human  hearts,  and  sweeps  everything 
before  it. 

'  Well,  good  evening,  Miss  Beatoun.  We 
will  see  you  when  you  come  again  to  Tyne- 
holm.  Good  evening,  Dalrymple ;  don't  be 
vexed  though  others  besides  you  can  appreciate 
sweetness  and  beauty ; '  with  which  parting 
shaft  the  Laird  lifted  his  cap  and  strode  away. 

Then  Elsie  and  Hew  turned  and  walked 
side  by  side  in  uncomfortable  silence.  Elsie 
did  not  feel  happy ;  it  grieved  her  to  look  at 
Hew's  moody,  downcast  face. 

'  Is  Aunt  Effie  very  angry  with  me,  Hew  ?' 
she  asked  timidly  at  length,  when  they  came 
to  a  stile  leading  into  a  narrow  strip  of  wood 
which  divided  part  of  the  lands  of  Lintlaw 
from  Carlowrie. 

'  Angry !  no  ;  what  for  should  she  be  angry, 
Elsie  ?  only  she  didna  want  ye  to  bide 
anither  nicht  at  Tyneholm.1 

'Are    you    angry,    Hew?'    was   the  next 


96  CARLOWRIE. 


question,  and  this  time  two  pleading  fingers 
touched  his  arm.  It  was  impossible  to  resist 
that,  and  the  glimmer  of  a  smile  dawned  on 
Hew's  sober  face. 

4  Angry  wi'  you,  Elsie !  that  wadna  be  easy. 
But  tell  me,  div  ye  like  better  to  bide  at 
Tyneholm  among  the  braw  folk  than  wi'  us 
at  Lintlaw  ? ' 

'  Oh,  Hew,  what  a  question ! '  said  Elsie 
very  indignantly.  4  You  don't  deserve  to  be 
spoken  to  for  saying  such  an  unkind  thing.' 

1  Maybe  no','  said  Hew.  '  I  say,  Elsie,  I 
hae  a  braw  bit  o'  news  for  ye.  Guess  what 
it  is.' 

'  I  never  guessed  anything  in  my  life ;  tell 
it  me,  Hew/  said  Elsie,  with  smiling,  wide- 
open  eyes. 

1  Weel,  oor  Christian's  to  get  the  minister.' 

'Oh,  Hew!' 

It  was  a  treat  to  see  Elsie's  dumbfoundered 
face. 

'  True  enough.  It  was  a'  settled  last  nicht 
Fine,  isn't  ? ' 

1  Yes,  Hew ;  but  oh,  if  Mr.  Laidlaw  were 
only  not  so  solemn!  Perhaps  Christian  will 
make  him  laugh.' 


AT  TYNEHOLM.  97 


1  He's  no'  that  solemn.  My,  if  ye  had 
kenned  Dr.  Rogers  that  was  in  Crichtoun 
afore  him,  ye  wadna  hae  thocht  Laidlaw 
solemn.  Father  an1  mother's  high  pleased,  I 
can  tell  ye.' 

4  And  does  Christian  love  him,  Hew?' 
asked  Elsie  slowly  and  solemnly,  whereat 
Hew  laughed  heartily. 

1  Of  course  she  does ;  I've  kenned  that  this 
while.  An'  the  first  time  the  minister  came 
to  Lintlaw,  he  fell  in  love  wi'  Christian.  I 
could  hae  telt  ye  that  as  weel.' 

4  How  do  you  know  all  these  things,  Hew  ?' 
inquired  Elsie,  greatly  mystified. 

4  Ay,  that's  a  puzzler.  I  wish  I  was  in 
Laidlaw's  shoon.' 

4  Why,  you  couldn't  marry  Christian,  you 
stupid  Hew.' 

4  No,  but  Carlowrie  needs  a  wife  as  muckle 
as  the  Manse,  or  maybe  mair,'  said  Hew,  with 
a  keen  side-glance  at  his  companion's  sweet 
face. 

4  Well,  I'm  sure  there's  plenty  girls.  Susan 
Pringle  at  the  Mains,  Bessie  Gray  at  South- 
side,  or  Miss  Ritchie  at  Scotstoun,'  said  Elsie 
saucily,  following  quite  unconsciously  in 


98  CARLOWRIE. 


Christian's  footsteps.  '  Would  none  of  them 
come  to  Carlowrie  ?  ' 

1  Maybe  they  wad,  but  I'll  no'  fash  them. 
Like  Laidlaw,  I'm  comin'  to  Lintlaw  by  and 
by  to  seek  a  wife,'  said  Hugh  daringly. 
Then  a  wave  of  crimson  rushed  to  Elsie's 
neck  and  cheek  and  brow,  and,  breaking  from 
him,  she  ran  off  across  the  field  and  through  the 
stile  into  the  wood  which  sheltered  Lintlaw. 

That  tell-tale  blush  had  caused  a  sweet  hope 
to  spring  in  Hew  Dairy mple's  heart;  perhaps, 
after  all,  the  sweetest  dream  of  his  young 
manhood  would,  ere  long,  have  a  blessed 
fulfilment. 

Aunt  Effie  had  no  reproach  for  the  truant ; 
indeed,  as  Miss  Hamilton  had  said,  it  was  not 
easy  to  be  angry  with  Elsie  Beatoun. 

1  I'm  very  sorry  if  I  stayed  too  long,  auntie, 
but  Miss  Hamilton  was  trying  to  teach  me  to 
play  on  the  piano,  and  she  would  not  let  me 
away.' 

Mrs.  Dalrymple  looked  keenly  into  Elsie's 
face,  wondering  what  had  brought  that  lovely 
flush  upon  it. 

'They  are  very  kind  to  ye  at  Tyneholm, 
Elsie?' 


AT  TYNEHOLM.  99 


'  Very,  auntie ;  we  went  a  long  drive  yester- 
day, and  as  there  was  no  company  last  night 
I  had  my  dinner  with  them ;  and  I  had  on 
one  of  Miss  Edith's  silk  gowns,  and  a  gold 
chain  about  my  neck.  What  grandeur,  eh, 
auntie  ? '  laughed  Elsie  gleefully. 

'  Ay,  truly,  ye  may  say't,'  said  Mrs.  Dal- 
rymple  doubtfully ;  for  to  what  would  all  this 
tend  ?  It  would  not  fit  the  bairn  for  what  she 
hoped  and  prayed  one  day  to  see  her, — Hew's 
wife,  and  the  mistress  of  Carlowrie. 

'Where's  Christian?  Hew  told  me  the 
grand  secret,  Aunt  Effie ;  I  could  hardly 
believe  it.' 

'  It's  true  enough,  thank  the  Lord ;  I  could 
wush  a'  my  dear  bairns  as  desirable  a  doon- 
sittin'/  said  Aunt  EfHe,  her  face  shining  in  its 
tender  motherliness.  '  There's  nae  greater 
blessin'  on  this  earth,  Elsie,  than  a  guid  man's 
honest  love.  When  your  time  comes,  my 
bairn,  dinna  mistak'  the  dross  for  the  gold, 
for  there's  mony  imitations  o't  abroad  in  this 
wicked  world.' 

'  I'll  mind  what  you  say,  Aunt  Effie,'  said 
Elsie  soberly,  and  went  away  up-stairs  to  take 
off  her  best  gown,  and  make  ready  to  put 


loo  CARLOWR1E. 


Davie  to  bed.  That  had  been  one  of  her 
evening  tasks  ever  since  she  came  to  Lintlaw. 

'  How  do  you  feel,  Christian  ? '  asked  Elsie 
that  night  when  they  were  alone  in  their  own 
room.  '  Tell  me  what  like  it  is  to  be  engaged 
to  be  married.' 

'  I  couldna  tell  ye,  Elsie,'  answered  Chris- 
tian, her  face  so  tender,  her  eyes  glowing  so, 
that  Elsie  was  amazed.  '  Everything's  dif- 
ferent. The  sun  shines  brighter,  the  trees  an' 
the  flowers  are  bonnier ;  it's  just  a  new  world, 
an'  a  new  life  a'  thegither ;  but  some  day, 
Elsie,  ye'll  ken  a'  aboot  it,  an'  then  ye  can  tell 
me  if  I  didna  speak  true.' 


CHAPTER  VII. 

ELSIE'S  FAREWELL  TO  LINTLAW. 

HRISTIAN'S  marriage  was  not  to 
K  be  for  a  while.  She  was  young 
enough,  her  mother  said,  and  she 
was  not  prepared  to  part  with  her  yet.  The 
minister  had  just  to  submit.  As  for  Christian, 
she  was  perfectly  happy ;  the  present  was 
enough  for  her,  and  she  did  not  care  to  fret 
herself  about  the  future. 

In  June  the  Hamiltons  went  away  from 
Tyneholm,  greatly  to  the  relief  of  mor.e  than 
one  heart  on  their  lands.  They  would  not  be 
back  till  Christmas-time ;  in  the  autumn  they 
expected  to  be  travelling  again  in  Spain,  and 
for  the  first  time  Mrs.  Dalrymple  was  not 
sorry  when  the  big  house  was  closed.  They 
had  begun  to  spoil  Elsie  at  Tyneholm ;  and 


102  CARLOWRIE. 


the  keen  eyes  of  the  mistress  were  quick  to 
note  that  the  bairn's  light  duties  at  Lintlaw 
became  more  of  a  task  to  her ;  also,  that  she 
seemed  to  have  grown  vainer,  and  more  desir- 
ous of  fine  clothes  than  she  used  to  be.  But 
when  Tyneholm  was  deserted,  and  Edith 
Hamilton,  with  her  sweet,  caressing  words  and 
ways,  and  Keith,  with  his  open  as  well  as 
veiled  flatteries,  came  no  more  to  Lintlaw, 
Elsie  settled  down  with  at  least  a  semblance 
of  contentment. 

That  was  a  summer  of  unspeakable  happi- 
ness, of  deep,  calm  content,  for  those  under  the 
roof- tree  at  dear  Lintlaw.  Never  had  the 
laddies  learned  their  lessons  so  well,  never 
had  Effie  been  so  good,  so  willing  to  do  little 
things  about  the  house ;  never  had  Christian 
been  so  much  of  a  pillar  in  the  house ;  never, 
indeed,  had  the  relations  of  that  happy  family 
been  so  perfect.  It  was  a  home,  indeed,  where 
love  and  unity  prevailed,  where  parents  and 
children  did  their  utmost  each  for  the  other's 
happiness  and  comfort.  When  a  bountiful 
harvest  crowned  the  year,  and  was  safely 
ingathered  both  at  Lintlaw  and  Carlowrie, 
the  cup  seemed  to  overflow.  It  is  often  thus. 


ELSIE'S  FAREWELL  TO  LINTLAW.  103 

To  my  thinking,  deep  joy  is  often  a  preparing 
for  as  deep  a  sorrow.  It  is  an  oft-repeated 
truism  that  a  calm  ever  precedes  a  storm. 

Quietly,  but  swiftly,  the  winter  slipped  away. 
Christmas  passed  without  bringing  the  Laird's 
folk  to  Tyneholm ;  and  if  Elsie  was  dis- 
appointed, she  did  not  show  it.  But  early  in 
March  they  heard  that  there  were  prepara- 
tions being  made  at  Tyneholm  for  their 
return.  Then  somehow  the  heart  of  Mrs. 
Dairy mple  —  ay,  and  of  Hew  also  —  grew 
heavy  with  an  unspoken  dread. 

One  boisterous  afternoon  towards  the  close 
of  the  month,  the  carriage  from  Tyneholm 
came  driving  up  to  Lintlaw,  and  the  coach- 
man delivered  a  note  for  Mrs.  Dalrymple. 
It  was  from  Edith  Hamilton,  and  just  re- 
quested that  dear  Mrs.  Dalrymple  would 
kindly  send  Elsie  back  with  the  carriage,  for 
she  was  wearying  to  see  her,  and  was  too 
poorly  to  go  out.  Elsie  was  busy  ironing  in 
the  kitchen  when  the  carriage  came,  and  she 
had  not  heard  the  wheels  among  the  soft  snow. 
Mrs.  Dalrymple  read  the  note,  then  passed  it 
to  her  husband,  who  was  reading  the  paper 
in  his  arm-chair. 


104  CARLOWJtIE. 


1  Yell  better  bid  Elsie  get  ready  then,  wife/ 
he  said,  as  if  the  matter  was  quite  settled. 

'  I  dinna  like  Elsie  gaun  to  Tyneholm, 
Davie.  The  bairn's  best  at  hame.' 

'  Hoots,  if  it  pleases  Miss  Hamilton,  it'll  dae 
Elsie  nae  harm,'  said  the  farmer ;  but  his  wife 
shook  her  head. 

'  When  Elsie's  been  at  Tyneholm,  Davie, 
she  has  nae  heart  for  her  wark  when  she 
comes  hame.  It's  guid  for  naebody  to  step 
oot  o'  their  station,  be  they  high  or  low. 
Then  there's  the  Laird,  ye  ken.' 

'  What  aboot  him  ? '  asked  Lintlaw  rather 
absently,  for  he  was  engrossed  with  his  paper. 

'  Man,  but  ye're  blind,  Davie.  The  Laird's 
a  young  man,  an'  a'body  kens  Elsie's  bonnie, 
ower  bonnie.  I  whiles  think  beauty's  mair  a 
snare  than  a  means. o'  grace,  Davie.' 

But  Lintlaw  just  laughed  at  his  wife's 
anxiety. 

'  Oh,  you  women  folk  for  spyin'  ferlies ! 
Awa',  an'  bid  the  bairn  get  on  her  bannet, 
an'  no'  keep  the  chap  staunin'  in  the  cauld,* 
he  said ;  and  Aunt  Effie  went  away  to  the 
kitchen  and  told  Elsie  of  the  summons  which 
had  come  for  her. 


ELSIE'S  FAREWELL  TO  LINTLAIV.  105 

Elsie  set  down  her  iron,  and  looked  a  little 
ruefully  into  her  aunt's  sober  face. 

'  You  don't  want  me  to  go  to  Tyneholm, 
auntie  ? '  she  said  quickly. 

'  I  wad  be  tellin'  a  lee  if  I  said  I  did ;  but 
yer  uncle's  for  ye  gaun.  So  rin  and  get  on 
yer  hat ;  an'  oh,  bairn,  tak'  care  o'  yersel'  at 
Tyneholm,  an'  dinna  let  the  braw  folk  spoil 
oor  Elsie ! '  said  the  mistress,  with  passionate 
earnestness. 

'  They  will  never  spoil  me,  Aunt  Effie ;  at 
least,  they  will  never  make  me  love  you  and 
dear  Lintlaw  less,'  she  said  impulsively,  and 
ran  away  up  stairs  to  change  her  gown  ;  and  I 
must  write  down  that  the  idea  of  living  once 
more  among  the  luxury  and  pleasant  idleness 
at  Tyneholm  was  not  by  any  means  repug- 
nant to  her. 

She  found  Miss  Hamilton  lying  on  a  couch 
in  her  own  dressing-room,  looking  pale  and 
worn.  Her  face,  however,  lighted  up  with  a 
pleasant  smile,  and  she  held  out  both  her 
hands,  when  Elsie  entered  the  room. 

'  Come  to  me,  child ;  it  seems  years  since 
I  saw  your  dear  face,'  she  said  ;  and  Elsie, 
kneeling  down  by  the  couch,  kissed  the  young 


106  CARLOWR1E. 


lady  of  Tyneholm  as  if  she  had  been  a  sister. 
When  they  were  alone  the  difference  in  their 
rank  was  laid  aside  or  forgotten. 

'  Dear  Miss  Edith,  it  grieves  me  to  see  you 
looking  so  ill,'  said  Elsie  tenderly. 

'  Ah  yes,  I  am  very  weak,  dear.  It  was 
folly  to  think  that  I  was  really  well ;  and 
yet  I  felt  so  strong.  We  were  at  Alnwick 
for  Christmas,  you  know,  and  they  were  very 
gay.  I  fancy  I  had  too  much  excitement  and 
pleasure.  I  am  so  glad  to  come  home,  so 
glad,  Elsie !  How  I  long  sometimes  to  settle 
down  in  dear  Tyneholm.  I  am  sure  that  here 
I  should  grow  quite  strong.' 

'  But  you  will  stay  all  the  summer,  now  that 
you  have  come,  Miss  Edith  ?' 

But  the  invalid  shook  her  head. 

'  Directly  I  am  well,  mamma  will  have  me 
off  to  London.  Poor  mamma,  she  is  as  fond 
of  gaiety  as  any  girl, — much  fonder  than  I  am, 
indeed, — and  I  do  not  like  to  disappoint  her. 
How  nice  it  is  to  have  you  here,  arid  how  well 
you  look, — lovelier  than  ever.  Come,  tell  me 
what  you  have  been  making  of  yourself  since 
I  saw  you  last.' 

'  Nothing,  Miss  Edith.     Just  working  away 


ELSIE'S  FAREWELL  TO  LINT  LAW.  107 

at  Lintlaw,  and  sewing  a  little  at  Christian's 
providing.' 

'  It  is  true,  then,  that  Christian  is  to  get  Mr. 
Laidlaw  ?  We  heard  it  in  Edinburgh.  She 
will  make  a  delightful  minister's  wife.' 

'  Yes  ;  I  never  saw  anybody  half  so  nice  as 
Christian,'  replied  Elsie  sincerely. 

1  Did  you  not  ?  I  am  afraid  that  if  I  come 
after  all  your  cousins  at  Lintlaw,  I  am  not 
very  dear  to  you,  Elsie,'  said  Edith,  a  triflta 
sadly.  She  was  weary  and  out  of  sorts, 
and,  as  a  natural  consequence,  capricious  and 
even  irritable.  Though  sweet  and  amiable  by 
nature,  Edith  Hamilton  was  inclined  to  be 
selfish ;  and,  having  been  petted  and  indulged 
all  her  life  on  account  of  her  weak  health,  this 
selfishness  had  grown  upon  her,  and  she  could 
scarcely  bear  to  have  a  whim  crossed.  It  was 
sad  to  see  one  who  had  so  many  blessings  so 
thankless  for  them.  She  was  ever  craving  for 
something  out  of  her  reach. 

'  You  will  stay  a  day  or  two,  Elsie  ?  I  have 
nobody  to  cheer  me,'  said  Edith  dolefully. 
'  When  one  is  well  and  able  to  receive  and 
return  hospitalities,  friends  are  plenty ;  but 
not  many  like  a  sick-room.  That  is  one 


io8  CARLOWRIE. 


of  the  things  the  great  world  has  taught 
me.' 

'  I  often  think  how  happy  you  must  be 
travelling  about  seeing  so  many  things  and 
places,  Miss  Edith,'  said  Elsie. 

'  Child,  would  you  like  such  a  life  ?  I 
fancied  you  as  content  in  your  quiet  corner 
as  the  heartsease  beneath  the  hedgerows 
about  Lintlaw/  exclaimed  Miss  Hamilton, 
with  a  smile. 

'  Oh,  I  am  content  enough,'  said  Elsie  rather 
confusedly ;  '  only  sometimes  it  is  so  quiet  at 
Lintlaw,  and  Christian  is  so  taken  up  with 
Mr.  Laidlaw  that  she  is  quite  lost  to  me,  that 
I  wish  for  a  little  change.' 

'  You  shall  have  it,  my  child,'  said  Edith, 
with  a  sudden  inspiration.  '  But  come,  tell 
me.  We  have  heard  whisperings  of  a  mistress 
for  Carlowrie ;  are  you  not  the  chosen  one  ? ' 

Up  swept  the  wave  of  carmine  to  Elsie's 
cheek  and  brow, — 

4  Indeed  I  am  not,  Miss  Edith,'  she  said 
rather  indignantly.  'Whoever  told  you  that 
spoke  just  by  hearsay.  I  never  heard  any- 
thing about  such  a  thing.' 

'  Well,  well,  I  will  not  tease  you/  said  Miss 


ELSIE'S  FAREWELL  TO  LINTLAW.  109 

Hamilton,  and  just  then  the  door  opened  and 
Mrs.  Hamilton  entered  the  room. 

She  did  not  look  particularly  pleased  to  see 
the  position  of  the  two  girls ;  nevertheless 
she  greeted  Elsie  graciously  enough.  Mrs. 
Hamilton  of  Tyneholm,  even  when  most  put 
out,  never  for  a  moment  forgot  her  habitual 
courtesy.  Her  manners  were  the  perfection 
of  good-breeding. 

She  inquired  kindly  for  her  welfare  and 
that  of  the  inmates  of  Lintlaw ;  but  when 
Edith  spoke  of  her  remaining  a  few  days  she 
said  nothing  at  all.  But,  as  usual,  Edith  had 
her  way.  By  a  little  skilful  diplomacy  Mrs. 
Hamilton  managed  to  keep  her  son  out  of 
Elsie's  way  during  these  three  days ;  never- 
theless Keith's  opportunity  came. 

The  watchful  mother  had  gone  to  lie  down 
for  an  hour,  Edith  had  fallen  asleep  on  her 
couch,  so  Elsie  stole  away  down  to  the 
library  for  a  book  wherewith  to  while  away  the 
time.  And  there  she  found  the  Laird  writ- 
ing at  the  table.  She  would  have  run  off 
again,  but  he  sprang  up  and  offered  her  a 
chair. 

4 1  must  not  disturb  you,  Mr.   Keith,'  she 


no  CARLOWRIE. 


said  confusedly.     '  I  did  not  know  you  were 
here,  or ' — 

'  You  wouldn't  have  come,  eh  ?  A  most 
unkind  speech, — when  I  was  longing  to  see 
you.  You  have  been  in  the  house  for  two 
days,  and  I  have  scarcely  spoken  to  you. 
Whose  fault  is  that  ? '  he  said  gaily,  but  with 
an  undertone  of  real  earnestness  in  his  voice. 

'  I  don't  know.  I  have  been  with  Miss 
Edith.  Mr.  Keith,  I  think  I  will  go  up-stairs 
again,'  said  Elsie,  looking  so  lovely  in  her 
timidity  and  shy  confusion,  that  Keith  flung 
his  prudence  to  the  winds. 

'  Nay,  you  will  stay  a  little  with  me.  Don't 
grudge  me  a  few  minutes,  Elsie.  I  have 
hungered  for  a  sight  of  your  sweet  face  for 
months  ;  and  what  else  do  you  suppose  brought 
me  to  this  dreary  place  at  this  season  of  the 
year  ? '  he  said  passionately,  but  Elsie  had 
flown. 

She  was  beginning  to  learn  what  Aunt 
Effie  had  meant  by  bidding  her  take  care  of 
herself  at  Tyneholm,  for,  untutored  as  she  was 
in  the  world's  ways,  she  knew  that  Keith 
Hamilton  had  no  right  to  address  such  words 
to  her,  even  though  his  love  was  as  honourable 


ELSIE'S  FAREWELL  TO  LINTLAW.  \\\ 

as  Hew  Dalrymple's  own,  for  between  them 
there  was  a  great  gulf  fixed. 

'Mamma,'  said  Edith  to -her  mother  that 
night  when  they  were  alone,  '  I  do  not  think 
it  is  true  that  Elsie  is  to  marry  her  cousin.  I 
want  you  to  grant  me  a  great,  great  favour. 
Promise  me  before  I  ask  it.' 

'  If  it  relates  to  Elsie,  my  love,  I  cannot 
promise  till  I  hear  what  it  is,  not  knowing 
what  absurd  thing  you  may  ask/  replied  Mrs. 
Hamilton. 

*  It  is  a  very  little  thing,  mamma.  The 
child  is  sick  of  her  life  at  Lintlaw,  and  she  is 
fitted  for  something  infinitely  better.' 

'  If  she  is  sick  of  her  life  at  Lintlaw  you  are 
greatly  to  blame,  I  doubt,'  said  Mrs.  Hamilton 
gravely. 

1  Not  so,  mamma.  It  is  an  inborn  refine- 
ment which  cannot  accustom  itself  to  uncon- 
genial surroundings.  If  you  were  as  much 
with  Elsie  as  I  have  been,  you  would  be 
astonished,  I  can  tell  you.  It  is  a  very  little 
thing  I  want  you  to  promise ;  just  that  you 
will  let  me  take  Elsie  to  London  when  we  go 
next  month.' 

Mrs.  Hamilton  made  no  reply,  and  certainly 


112  CARLOWRIE. 


her  face  did  not  give  promise  of  a  favourable 
answer.  After  a  little  she  said, — 

'  Edith,  you  ask  not  only  a  very  foolish,  but 
even  a  wrong  thing.  If  Elsie  is  already 
wearied  of  her  life  at  Lintlaw,  what  will  she 
be  when  you  bring  her  back  from  London  ? 
My  child,  I  really  wish  you  would  not  be 
so  unreasonable  in  your  whims/  said  Mrs. 
Hamilton  kindly,  yet  firmly. 

She  was  a  sensible  woman,  and  Edith's 
waywardness  tried  her  sorely.  Rebellious  tears 
sprang  into  the  invalid's  eyes. 

4 1  have  so  little  pleasure  in  life,  mamma,  it 
seems  hard  that  I  should,  for  no  substantial 
reason,  be  deprived  of  Elsie's  companionship, 
which  is  so  great  a  joy  to  me,'  she  said 
petulantly.  '  Other  girls  have  sisters  to  whom 
they  can  talk, — I  have  no  one.' 

'  My  darling,  you  have  Keith  and  me/  said 
Mrs.  Hamilton  gently,  and  laid  her  cool  hand 
on  her  daughter's  troubled  brow.  'Are  we 
not  enough  ?  Have  we  failed  in  love  and 
care  for  you,  dear  ? ' 

'No;  but  I  have  set  my  mind  on  this, 
mamma,  and  I  am  afraid  I  will  make  myself 
ill  if  it  is  denied  me.  I  know  how  weak  and 


ELSIE'S  FAREWELL  TO  L1NTLAW.  113 

foolish  I  am,  but  I  do  not  seem  to  be  able  to 
help  it.  Bear  with  me,  mamma,  and  if  you 
love  me  grant  my  request.' 

The  mother  rose  with  a  heavy  sigh.  She 
was  conquered,  but  she  knew  herself  weak 
where  she  ought  to  have  been  strong.  So  it 
was  tacitly  settled  at  Tyneholm  that  Elsie 
Beatoun  should  go  to  London.  But  another 
and  more  formidable  obstacle  lay  in  Edith's 
path,  for  would  the  Lintlaw  folk  ever  consent 
to  such  a  thing  ? 

When  Elsie  went  home  at  the  end  of  the 
week  her  head  was  just  full  of  London,  and 
from  several  things  she  let  drop,  Christian 
gathered  what  was  in  contemplation.  She 
carried  it  with  a  very  grave  face  to  her  mother. 
The  sweet  lips  of  the  mistress  shut  sternly 
together,  and  she  shook  her  head  decidedly. 

'  Never  wi'  my  consent,  Christian ;  never 
while  I  live,'  was  all  she  said. 

But  the  Hamilton  will  was  stronger  than 
the  Dalrymple  one,  so  it  came  to  pass  that  in 
April  Elsie  was  making  her  preparations  for 
this  momentous  visit. 

She  was  eager  to  be  gone,  for  since  the 
subject  had  been  broached,  there  had  sprung 


H4  CARLOWRIE. 


up  a  strange  coldness  between  her  and  those 
who  had  loved  and  cared  for  her  so  long. 
She  knew  she  was  doing  wrong,  that  with 
Christian's  marriage  coming  on  after  harvest, 
her  place  was  at  Lintlaw,  but  the  wayward 
heart  stilled  its  own  misgivings  by  resolving 
to  work  all  the  harder  when  she  came  back  in 
the  summer-time.  Lintlaw  himself  was  the 
least  concerned  of  them  all.  He  thought  it  a 
fine  trip  for  Elsie,  and  hoped  she  would  enjoy 
herself,  also  he  gave  her  a  big  cheque  (for  Elsie 
had  money  yet  in  the  bank  at  Dalkeith)  to  buy 
braws,  he  said,  fit  for  the  gaze  of  the  grand 
folks  she  was  going  to  London  to  see.  There 
were  times  when,  looking  at  the  face  of  her 
aunt,  Elsie  felt  tempted  to  abandon  all  idea  of 
the  London  visit.  The  sweet  motherly  face 
seemed  to  be  ageing  as  the  days  went  by,  the 
features  growing  more  sharply  outlined,  the 
dear  eyes  more  wearied-looking ;  and  now 
nobody  wondered  to  hear  that  she  had  gone 
to  lie  down  for  a  little  in  the  afternoons,  or 
when  she  went  to  bed  before  the  reading  at 
nights.  These  things  came  so  gradually  that 
they  did  not  alarm  anybody,  though  outsiders 
often  spoke  of  how  Mrs.  Dairy mple  of  Lint- 


ELSIE'S  FAREWELL  TO  LINTLAW.  115 

law  had  failed  of  late.  From  the  time  that 
it  was  settled  that  Elsie  should  go,  until  the 
night  before  she  went  away,  Hew  Dalrymple 
never  came  across  to  Lintlaw.  He  said  he 
was  busy  with  his  sowing,  which  was  true 
enough,  but  there  was  nothing  to  keep  him  at 
Carlowrie  on  Sundays,  and  it  must  have  been 
dreary  enough  for  him  in  the  lonely  house 
after  the  kirk  came  out.  If  Elsie  guessed, 
she  never  admitted  it,  but  Mrs.  Dalrymple 
and  Christian  too,  knew  very  well  what  was 
the  matter  with  Hew,  and  they  could  not  help 
feeling  a  little  sore  against  Elsie.  Altogether 
that  spring-time  was  a  very  dreary,  uncomfort- 
able season  for  the  Dalrymples,  and  they  felt 
that  the  sooner  Elsie  was  away  now  the 
better. 

Late  on  the  last  evening  Elsie  was  to  spend 
beneath  the  roof-tree  of  Lintlaw  for  a  long 
time,  Hew  came  over  from  Carlowrie.  When 
he  opened  the  front  door,  the  first  thing  he 
saw  was  a  big  box  addressed  for  London,  and 
his  lips  set  and  his  eyes  grew  dark  with  pain. 
Poor  Hew,  nobody  but  himself  knew  what  he 
had  endured  in  his  loneliness  at  Carlowrie, 
for  he  had  lived  for  months  in  a  state  of 


Ii6  CARLO WRIE. 


cruel  uncertainty  regarding  Elsie's  feelings ; 
she  would  not  listen  to  him  any  time  he  had 
tried  to  broach  the  subject  nearest  his  heart. 
But  the  uncertainty  was  over  now,  for  if 
Elsie  had  loved  him,  ay,  even  a  tithe  as 
much  as  he  loved  her,  that  box  would  never 
have  been  standing  packed  in  the  passage  at 
Lintlaw.  To  his  relief,  Elsie  was  not  in  the 
parlour  when  he  went  in,  and,  glad  of  his 
father's  question  about  the  turnip-sowing  on 
the  Back  Braes,  he  sat  down  and  began  to 
talk  about  his  work. 

1  Ay,  an'  Elsie's  for  off  the  morn/  said 
Lintlaw  in  his  dry  way.  '  We'll  miss  her 
for  a  wee,  but  twa  months  '11  sune  gang 
by.' 

Hew  never  spoke ;  but  his  mother  answered 
for  him. 

'  Hoots,  ay,  what's  twa  months  ? — just  a 
flash,  an'  it's  ower ;  an'  maybe  Elsie'll  think 
mair  o'  Lintlaw  an'  us  quiet  folk  efter  she's 
seen  the  big  cauld  world  o*  London.' 

'  Oh,  Hew,  ye  should  hae  come  last  nicht 
an*  seen  a'  Elsie's  bonnie  goons  afore  they 
gaed  in  the  box !  My,  she'll  be  as  braw  as 
Miss  Hamilton  herselT  exclaimed  Erne,  look- 


ELSIE'S  FAREWELL  TO  LINTLAW.  117 

ing  up  from  her  slate,  and  heaving  a  sigh  of 
rapturous  envy. 

Little  though  she  was,  Effie  was  as  vain  as 
Miss  Ritchie's  peacock  at  Scotstoun. 

To  all  these  remarks  Hew  made  no  reply ; 
and  presently,  when  he  heard  Elsie's  foot  on 
the  stair,  a  deep  and  painful  flush  overspread 
his  manly  face,  and  he  called  himself  a  fool 
for  having  come  to  Lintlaw  to-night. 

Elsie  was  very  quiet,  pale  a  little  also,  and 
her  eyes  looked  as  if  she  had  been  crying. 

'  How  are  you,  Hew  ? '  she  said,  trying  to 
smile,  but  her  lip  quivered,  and  she  turned 
swiftly  away  lest  anybody  should  see  it.  Hew 
did  not  remain  long  at  Lintlaw,  and,  declining 
the  offer  of  supper  on  the  plea  that  his  house- 
keeper would  be  waiting  up  for  him,  he  said 
good-night  to  them  all,  coming  last  to  Elsie. 
He  had  made  up  a  little  speech  on  the  way 
over,  but  it  vanished,  and  he  could  not  speak 
at  all.  But  that  grip  of  the  hand,  painful  in 
its  intensity,  the  look  in  the  honest  grey  eyes, 
were  more  eloquent  than  ten  thousand  words, 
and  Elsie  ran  sobbing  out  of  the  room.  A 
few  minutes  later,  when  Hew  was  striding 
across  the  green  to  the  stile  which  he  must 


n8  CARLOWRIE. 


cross  into  the  field,  he  heard  a  light  footfall 
behind  him,  and,  to  his  amazement,  there  was 
Elsie.  In  the  bright  moonlight,  he  could  see 
the  dewdrops  glittering  on  her  lashes,  also 
that  she  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot. 

4  I  came — I  came,  Hew,  because  I  couldn't 
let  you  away  without  speaking  to  you.  Are 
you  very  angry,  dear  Hew  ?  Do  you  think  me 
a  wicked,  ungrateful  girl  ?  ' 

4  God  forbid  !  Ye  ken  brawly  what  I  think, 
Elsie,'  said  Hew ;  and  it  took  all  his  giant 
strength  to  restrain  the  thousand  impulses 
bounding  in  his  heart. 

'  If  you  bid  me,  Hew,  I  will  stay  at  home,, 
I  will  indeed ! '  she  said,  with  such  earnestness 
that  there  was  no  mistaking  her  meaning. 

'  Elsie !  Elsie ! '  exclaimed  Hew  hoarsely. 
4  For  God's  sake,  dinna  torment  me.  Tell 
me  what  ye  mean.' 

4 1  mean  that  when  I  come  back,  I  will  come 
to  Carlowrie  if  you  will  let  me,'  she  whispered. 
4  Oh,  Hew,  could  you  not  see  I  have  loved  you 
all  the  time  ? ' 

So  again  the  young  May  moon  witnessed 
a  solemn  betrothal,  and  an  hour  later  Hew 
Dalrymple  went  away  home  to  Carlowrie  with 


ELSIE'S  FAREWELL  TO  LINTLAW.  119 

the  very  sunshine  of  heaven  in  his  heart. 
As  for  Elsie,  she  crept  away  into  the  house, 
and  into  the  arms  of  Hew's  mother,  who, 
regardless  of  her  own  weariness,  was  waiting 
up,  hoping  and  praying  for  her  boy. 

'When  I  come  back,  Aunt  Effie,  I  am  to 
be  Hew's  wife,'  she  whispered  ;  '  and  oh,  I  will 
be  a  better  girl  than  I  have  ever  been ;  for  I 
have  given  you  many  a  sore  heart.' 

4  When  I  come  back  ! '  ah  !  when  would  that 
be  ?  Little  dreamed  Elsie  Beatoun,  when  she 
lay  down  with  tears  of  joy  in  her  eyes  that 
night,  how  many  weary  days  would  elapse 
before  she  should  again  look  upon  Lintlaw, 
and  that  when  the  pleasant  family  circle  again 
numbered  her  in  its  midst,  the  dearest  one  of 
all  should  be  gone  for  evermore,  leaving  only 
an  angel  memory  behind. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE   LADY   ANNE    TRAQUAIR. 

IT  her  escritoire,  in  the  morning-room 
at  Lyndon  Priory,  sat  the  Lady 
Anne  Traquair,  with  a  pen  in  her 
hand  and  writing  materials  before  her.  She 
was  apparently  deeply  absorbed  in  thought, 
for  her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  green 
meadowlands  stretching  for  miles  across  the 
flat  but  picturesque  landscape  which  sur- 
rounded her  English  home.  It  was  a  morn 
of  April's  sunniest  mood ;  the  dewdrops 
glittered  still  upon  the  close-shaven  lawn,  and 
upon  the  fragrant  blossoms  of  the  lilac  and 
laburnum ;  a  day,  indeed,  to  gladden  the  eyes 
and  hearts  of  all.  But  the  expression  upon 
the  face  of  the  Lady  Anne  was  one  of  discon- 
tent and  unrest.  She  was  a  tall  and  hand- 


120 


THE  LADY  ANNE  TRAQUAIR.  121 

some  woman,  and  though  the  hair  under  her 
elaborate  lace  coiffure  was  as  white  as  the 
driven  snow,  and  her  face  deeply  marked 
with  the  lines  either  of  sorrow  or  passion,  her 
figure  was  still  held  erect  with  all  the  grace 
and  dignity  of  a  queen.  It  was  a  remarkable 
and  striking  face,  which,  once  seen,  would  be 
remembered  long.  It  was  very  pale,  and 
about  the  keen  black  eyes  and  the  firm,  stern 
mouth  there  were  great  black  shadows,  which 
told  of  either  physical  weakness  or  mental 
pain.  Hers  had  indeed  been  a  chequered 
life,  marked ,  by  many  a  storm  of  passion  and 
pain ;  but  the  struggle  was  really  over  now, 
and  she  dwelt  a  childless  widow  in  the  home 
where  she  had  spent  the  years  of  her  maiden- 
hood. She  only  left  it  occasionally  in  the 
spring  to  spend  a  few  weeks  in  London ;  and, 
though  her  husband  had  been  a  Scotchman, 
and  had  taught  her  to  love  his  native  land 
and  his  paternal  home,  the  goodly  heritage  of 
the  Traquairs  had  not  seen  its  widowed  mis- 
tress for  a  score  of  years. 

She  was  not  alone  in  the  room.  Near  to 
the  fire,  which  in  its  ruddy  glow  vied  with  the 
brilliance  of  the  morning  sun,  sat  a  poor,  thin, 


122  CARLOWR1E. 


subdued  -  looking  woman,  past  middle  life, 
attired  in  sombre  black,  and  working  with 
nerveless  fingers  at  a  piece  of  dingy  wool- 
work. She  was  Deborah  Conroy,  a  distant 
kinswoman  of  the  Lady  Anne's,  who,  in  her 
poverty,  had  been  glad  to  accept  the  offer  of  a 
home  at  the  Priory,  and  whose  feeble  spirit 
had  long  ago  been  broken  by  her  kinswoman's 
iron  will.  She  was  now  simply  a  machine,  a 
thing  who  spoke  when  she  was  spoken  to,  and 
who  never  ventured  nor  desired  to  entertain, 
much  less  to  express,  any  opinion  of  her  own. 
She  was  not  positively  unhappy  ;  she  lived,  and 
ate,  and  moved,  and,  having  grown  accustomed 
to  the  desolation  of  her  life,  had  ceased  to 
fret,  and  therefore  was  at  peace.  Suddenly 
the  long  silence  was  broken  by  the  voice  of 
the  Lady  Anne,  harsh,  discordant,  and  un- 
musical. 

1  I  cannot  write  that  letter,  Deborah ;  my 
pen  refuses  to  move  in  accordance  with  my 
will.' 

1  Yes,  Anne,'  said  Deborah  meekly. 

'  I  have  another  plan,  Deborah/  continued 
the  Lady  Anne.  '  I  shall  go  to  London,  and 
learn  for  myself  what  manner  of  fellow  is  this 


THE  LADY  ANNE  TRAQUAIR.  123 

Mr.  Howard  Traquair  who  claims  kinship 
with  me  as  the  next  heir  of  Traquair.' 

'  Yes,  Anne,  that  will  be  a  very  good 
plan,'  said  Deborah,  in  the  same  still,  passion- 
less voice. 

'  And  if  he  is  what  I  desire,  I  shall  adopt 
him  as  my  son  at  once ;  and,  all  being  well,  I 
shall  go  to  Traquair  in  the  autumn.' 

'  Will  you,  Anne  ? ' 

If  such  a  thing  were  possible,  there  was 
a  note  of  surprise  in  Deborah's  voice  this 
time. 

'  Yes,'  said  the  Lady  Anne,  with  a  grim 
smile.  '  After  the  lapse  of  twenty  years, 
surely  I  can  look  once  more  upon  the  place 
about  which  I  scarcely  dared  to  think  till  lately. 
Would  you  believe  there  was  such  weakness 
about  me,  Deborah  ? ' 

'  No,  Anne,  I  would  not  have  believed  it,' 
said  Deborah. 

'  Well,  you  will  make  what  arrangements 
are  necessary,  Deborah ;  and  we  will  go  to 
London  on  Monday,'  said  the  Lady  Anne,  with 
her  usual  decision.  '  Write  first  of  all  to  see 
that  the  house  is  put  in  order.' 

'  Yes,    Anne,'    said    Deborah ;    and  began 


124  CARLOWRIE. 


slowly  to  roll  up  her  needlework,  preparatory 
to  obeying  her  kinswoman's  directions. 

Then  Lady  Anne  shut  her  escritoire,  and, 
rising,  swept  slowly  from  the  room,  her  long 
silken  robes  trailing  behind  her  with  a  solemn 
rustling.  She  crossed  the  wide  corridor,  and, 
turning  the  key  of  a  baize-covered  door  which 
opened  into  the  western  wing  of  the  house, 
entered  the  picture  gallery  of  the  Priory.  It 
was  a  dim  and  darkened  place,  smelling  of 
moth  and  dust,  for  its  windows  were  always 
closed,  and  the  light  of  day  was  seldom  per- 
mitted to  shine  upon  the  pictures  which 
adorned  its  walls.  The  Lady  Anne  went  up 
to  one  of  the  long  windows,  undid  the  fasten- 
ing, and  threw  open  the  shutters ;  then  a  flood 
of  glorious  sunlight  shone  in.  Upon  the 
walls  there  were  many  portraits  of  the  dead 
and  gone  Lyndons,  but  it  was  at  none  of  her 
high-born  ancestors  the  Lady  Anne  had  come 
to  look.  She  walked  swiftly  to  the  further 
end  of  the  long  gallery,  to  a  little  niche  wherein 
hung  a  picture  with  its  face  turned  to  the  wall. 
Mute  history  -  teller !  Silent,  but  eloquent 
proclamation  of  a  skeleton  on  the  hearth — a 
tragedy  in  the  home !  With  trembling  hand 


THE  LADY  ANNE  TRAQUAIR.  125 

the  Lady  Anne  turned  the  face  of  the  picture 
to  the  light,  sending  a  cloud  of  dust  down 
upon  her  lace  head-dress  and  her  silken  gown. 
It  was  the  likeness  of  a  young  girl,  with  a 
lovely  child-like  face,  framed  in  golden  hair, 
and  lighted  by  large  dark  eyes  in  which  shone 
the  very  soul  of  purity  and  truth.  What  had 
that  fair  child  done  to  merit  so  great  and  sad 
a  punishment  ?  What  painful  or  shameful 
memories  did  that  lovely  face  recall,  that  it 
should  be  turned  away  from  public  view  ? 
Ah !  what  indeed  ?  The  Lady  Anne  looked 
long  at  the  picture,  not  a  muscle  of  her  set 
face  moving,  but  it  grew,  if  possible,  paler 
than  before.  Her  slender  fingers  were  nerv- 
ously interlaced,  and  she  trembled  in  every 
limb.  Ay,  that  proud  heart  was  stirred  to  the 
deepest  depths,  and  all  the  unspeakable,  un- 
quenchable yearnings  of  a  mother  surged  in 
her  breast.  A  deep  groan  broke  from  her 
lips,  and  great  beads  of  perspiration  stood  out 
in  the  furrows  on  her  brow,  telling  how  great 
was  the  agony  of  the  moment. 

'  Fool !  fool  that  I  was  to  come  here ! ' 
she  muttered,  and,  hastily  restoring  the  picture 
to  its  former  position,  hurriedly  left  the  place ; 


126  CARLO  WRIE. 


and  her  step,  as  she  sought  her  own  room,  lost 
its  stately  dignity,  and  became  like  the  feeble 
gait  of  age. 

That  day  poor  Deborah  Conroy  found  her 
kinswoman  more  irritable  and  trying  and  ex- 
acting than  she  had  ever  been  during  the  ten 
dreary  years  of  her  sojourn  with  her.  Every 
evening  at  six  o'clock  these  two  solitary 
women  dined  together  in  solemn  state,  for 
Lady  Anne  Traquair  was  rigid  in  the  observ- 
ances of  all  the  ceremony  in  keeping  with 
her  rank.  She  dressed  for  dinner,  and  even 
poor  Deborah  Conroy,  by  long  custom,  had 
got  to  find  a  certain  placid  satisfaction  in 
donning  her  best  silk  gown,  and  fastening  a 
broad  lace  collar  about  her  neck,  to  sit  down 
at  the  table  with  her  high-born  kinswoman. 

While  they  were  partaking  of  their  unsociable 
meal  that  evening,  they  were  disturbed  by  a 
loud  knock  at  the  hall  door,  and  presently 
a  message  was  brought  to  the  effect  that  a 
gentleman  waited  in  the  library  for  Lady 
Traquair. 

'  Tell  him  I  will  be  with  him  in  half  an 
hour,'  said  her  ladyship.  '  But  stay ;  did  he 
give  his  name  ? ' 


THE  LADY  ANNE  TRAQUAIR.  127 

'  Yes,  my  lady, — Mr.  Howard  Traquair/  said 
the  servant  respectfully. 

Then,  to  the  amazement  of  all,  her  ladyship 
rose  hastily  and  immediately  quitted  the  room, 
leaving  Deborah  Conroy  to  the  companionship 
of  Walters,  the  solemn-faced,  statuesque  butler, 
who  was  part  of  the  dreary  ceremonial  observed 
every  evening  in  the  dining-room  at  Lyndon 
Priory.  Lady  Anne  was  much  agitated ;  in- 
deed, she  had  to  pause  before  opening  the 
library  door,  in  order  to  recover  that  dignity 
and  repose  befitting  her  rank  and  age.  When 
she  entered  the  room,  she  beheld,  standing  in 
the  wide,  low  window,  the  tall,  well-knit  figure 
of  a  young  man,  who  immediately  turned  to 
her  a  frank,  open,  noble  face,  bearing  so  close 
a  resemblance  to  her  dead  husband  that  for 
a  moment  she  felt  like  one  in  a  dream.  He 
looked  keenly  at  her  haughty  face,  and  the 
sunny  smile  which  had  started  to  his  lips  died 
away,  and  he  bowed  gravely. 

'  Lady  Anne  Traquair?'  he  said  courteously. 

She  bowed,  and  waved  her  hand  to  a  seat ; 
but  the  young  man  preferred  to  stand  during 
the  momentous  interview  about  to  take  place. 

'  My   servant    brought    to    me    the    name 


128  CARLOWR1E. 


Howard  Traquair,'  she  said  somewhat  icily. 
'  Am  I  to  understand  that  you  are  the  writer 
of  the  extraordinary  communication  bearing 
that  signature  which  I  received  this  morning  ? ' 

'  I  am  Howard  Traquair,  Lady  Anne,  the 
only  son  of  Donald,  brother  to  your  late  hus- 
band, Sir  Howard  Traquair  of  Traquair  and 
Glenshee,'  said  the  young  man,  with  quiet  and 
manly  grace.  '  Will  you  permit  me  to  offer 
you  a  chair  while  I  relate  to  you  the  events 
which  have  led  up  to  this  visit  ? ' 

The  Lady  Anne  bowed,  and  sank  into  the 
chair  placed  for  her.  The  very  voice  was 
that  of  her  idolized  husband,  and  it  stirred 
in  her  heart  at  once  the  sweetest  and  most 
bitter  waters  of  memory. 

'  You  are  aware,  of  course,  Lady  Traquair, 
that  your  husband  and  his  brother  Donald  had 
a  bitter  quarrel  in  their  youth,  which  created 
a  breach  between  them,  never  to  be  healed 
this  side  the  grave  ? ' 

'  It  was  never  healed,  but  it  was  Donald's 
fault ;  my  husband  was  blameless,'  said  the 
Lady  Anne,  almost  in  a  whisper. 

'  You  are  right.  At  the  time  of  the  quarrel 
Donald  Traquair  left  Scotland  and  settled  in 


THE  LADY  ANNE  TRAQUAIR.  129 

London,  penniless,  as  you  must  be  aware;  and, 
having  married  late  in  life,  he  was  obliged  to 
earn  a  livelihood  for  himself  and  his  wife.  He 
only  lived  a  few  years ;  the  drudgery  of  work 
in  a  merchant's  office  killed  him ;  and  he 
died,  leaving  a  widow  and  two  children,  a 
boy  and  girl.  The  widow  struggled  on  alone, 
and  managed  to  rear  and  educate  her  child- 
ren till  they  were  able  to  help  themselves. 
Worn  out  with  the  struggle,  she  died  also 
in  London,  in  the  first  week  of  the  present 
year.  On  her  deathbed  she  revealed  to  her 
children  her  family  history,  which  till  then 
had  been  a  sealed  book  to  them.  That 
history,  Lady  Anne:,  induced  me  to  make 
some  inquiries,  and  has  brought  me  here 
to-day  to  claim  relationship  with  you.  I  am 
Howard  Traquair,  your  nephew.' 

'  And  the  other  ?  You  spoke  of  two  child- 
ren,' said  Lady  Traquair  nervously,  for  she 
was  labouring  under  intense  excitement. 

'She  is  living  still,  and  has  her  home  in 
London  with  me.  My  sister's  name  is  Mar- 
jorie  Traquair.' 

'  And  you,  what  do  you  do  ?  How  have 
you  supported  yourself  and  her  ?  ' 


\ 

130  CARLOWRIE. 

'  I  am  a  mercantile  clerk,  Lady  Traquair,' 
he  said,  without  hesitation  or  shame,  though 
he  saw  the  flush  of  pride  mount  to  the  cheek 
of  his  haughty  kinswoman. 

'  Your  story  is  plausible  enough,  but  it 
requires  proof.  Have  you  any  papers  be- 
longing to  your  father,  boy  ? '  said  the  Lady 
Anne,  with  difficulty. 

*  Yes ;  they  are  in  the  possession  of  a  firm 
of  London  solicitors,  Lady  Traquair,  and  can 
be  submitted  for  your  investigation  when  you 
please.  I  brought  nothing  with  me,  hoping 
that  my  likeness  to  my  uncle  Howard  would 
be  proof  sufficient.  My  mother  told  me  I 
was  his  living  image.' 

'  You  are  like  him  ;  but  there  are  chance 
resemblances  in  the  world  which  are  some- 
times turned  to  advantage  by  unprincipled 
persons,'  said  her  ladyship  grimly.  '  I  will 
not  commit  myself,  Mr.  Howard  Traquair, 
until  I  have  paid  a  visit  to  London,  and  made 
all  necessary  inquiries.' 

'  Very  well,  Lady  Anne.  May  I  express  a 
hope  that  when  you  do  come  to  London  you 
will  honour  Marjorie  and  me  by  a  visit  to  our 
abode?  My  sister  will  make  you  truly  welcome.' 


THE  LADY  ANNE  TRAQUAIR.  131 

Lady  Traquair  bowed  somewhat  distantly, 
but  her  heart  was  stirred  to  the  very  depths. 
It  went  out  to  this  young  man,  who  had  all 
the  bold  fearlessness  of  her  husband's  race,  in 
a  rush  of  tenderness  such  as  she  had  not 
experienced  for  many  years.  She  rang  the 
bell,  and  ordered  some  refreshment  to  be  laid 
down  in  the  library  for  the  gentleman,  and 
then,  bidding  him  good  afternoon,  returned  to 
the  dining-room.  She  signed  to  Walters  to 
leave  the  room,  and  sank  weakly  into  an  arm- 
chair on  the  hearth. 

'  I  have  received  a  great  shock,  Deborah, 
and  I  am  very  weak.  It  is  a  terrible  thing  to 
be  growing  old.  Bring  me  a  cup  of  tea, 
and  then  do  you  give  orders  that  a  carriage 
be  got  ready  to  convey  the  gentleman  in  the 
library  to  the  station.  Also  hasten  your 
arrangements,  for  we  must  travel  to  London 
to-morrow.' 

Deborah  Conroy  was  a  person  of  methodical 
habits,  and  she  it  was  who  managed  the  house- 
keeping at  Lyndon  Priory.  Her  post  was  no 
sinecure,  for  Lady  Anne  was  difficult  to  please, 
and  did  not  spare  her  humble  dependent  either 
labour  or  anxiety.  But  so  well  did  Deborah 


132  CARLOIVRIE. 


manage,  that  before  the  clock  struck  the  early 
hour  for  retiring  to  rest,  there  stood  in  the 
outer  hall  a  great  quantity  of  luggage  addressed 
to  Lady  Traquair's  house  in  Eaton  Place, 
London.  What  did  it  matter  that  the  poor 
soul  was  too  wearied  to  sleep  ?  She  was  not 
the  only  restless  being  in  the  Priory  that 
night,  for  the  Lady  Anne  never  closed  an  eye. 
Her  nerves  were  unstrung,  her  whole  being 
stirred,  and  there  seemed  to  overshadow  her 
some  great  crisis,  which  was  to  change  her 
life. 

Could  it  be  that  the  feeble  body  was  to 
rebel  at  last  against  the  iron  will  ?  and  was  it 
the  shadow  of  death  which  stood  afar,  bidding 
her  set  her  house  in  order,  and  prepare  for 
that  which  was  to  come  ? 

By  noon  next  day  they  were  on  their  way 
to  the  city  of  wealth  and  fashion.  Lady  Anne 
was  herself  once  more,  stately  and  cold  and 
haughty,  while  poor  Deborah  was  in  a  con- 
dition of  nervous  excitement  regarding  luggage 
and  sundry  other  things,  for  the  safe  transit 
of  which  she  would  be  held  responsible.  They 
arrived  in  London  about  six  o'clock  in  the 
evening.  The  distance  was  not  great,  but 


THE  LADY  ANNE  TRAQUAIR.  133 

the  locomotive  had  not  then  attained  its 
present  state  of  marvellous  perfection.  Indeed, 
it  was  only  between  important  centres  of  trade 
that  trains  were  run  at  all.  Lyndon  was  on 
the  main  line  between  London  and  Man- 
chester, and  on  that  account  was  considered 
by  some  a  very  desirable  place  of  abode. 

The  fashionable  thoroughfares  were  empty- 
ing for  the  day,  and  when  the  Lady  Traquair's 
carriage  approached  her  London  abode,  it 
became  only  one  among  many  dainty  and 
elegantly  -  appointed  equipages.  As  they 
passed  up  St.  James's  Square,  a  neat  park 
phaeton,  drawn  by  two  lovely  ponies,  drew  up 
just  before  them  in  front  of  one  of  the  stately 
mansions  in  the  Square.  It  held  two  ladies, 
and  just  as  Lady  Traquair's  carriage  swept 
past,  they  lowered  their  sun-shades  and  she 
saw  their  faces. 

'  Anne,  Anne !  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ? 
Have  you  taken  a  fit  ? '  exclaimed  Deborah 
Conroy,  alarmed  at  the  deathly  pallor  which 
overspread  the  face  of  her  kinswoman. 

4  No ;  but  I  have  seen  the  face  of  the  dead, 
Deborah  Conroy,'  she  said,  in  a  hollow  voice ; 
then  starting  up  with  sudden  energy,  she  pulled 


134  CARLOWRIE. 


the  little  silver  bell  to  attract  the  attention  of 
the  coachman.  To  the  footman  she  said,  '  Go 
back  and  inquire  who  resides  in  the  house 
where  the  phaeton  has  just  stopped.' 

The  man  looked  amazed  at  the  unusual 
command,  but  obeyed  at  once.  In  a  very 
few  minutes  he  again  appeared  at  the  carriage 
window  and  touched  his  hat. 

'It  is  the  town  house  of  Mrs.  Patrick 
Hamilton  of  Tyneholm,  Midlothian,  my  lady/ 
he  said.  % 

'  Thanks,  drive  on,'  she  said,  then  sank  back 
among  the  cushions,  repeating  the  address 
over  and  over. 

Deborah  Conroy  looked  on  in  helpless 
alarm,  greatly  fearing  that  her  kinswoman 
had  brooded  over  the  sorrows  and  shadows 
of  the  past  until  her  mental  powers  had 
broken  down. 


CHAPTER    IX. 
MY    GRAND-DAUGHTER! 

i 

>HERE   did   you  get  that  necklace, 
child  ?     It  is  most  beautiful.' 

It  was  Edith  Hamilton  who 
spoke,  and  she  was  looking  with  admiring 
eyes  at  a  chain  of  gold,  with  a  pendant 
attached,  exquisitely  designed,  and  set  with 
pearl  and  sapphire. 

'  It  was  my  mother's,  Miss  Edith,'  replied 
Elsie  Beatoun.  '  It  is  the  only  thing  I  have 
of  any  value  belonging  to  her.' 

She  was  lying  on  a  couch,  with  her  golden 
hair,  loosened  from  its  clasp,  lying  about  her 
like  a  halo ;  and  her  face  was  pale,  her  eyes 
wearied,  telling  that  the  country  blossom  was 
drooping  in  the  air  of  the  sultry  town. 

1  It    is    a   very  valuable   thing,    Elsie,    not 

136 


136  CARLOWRIE. 


like  the  usual  articles  of  jewellery  possessed 
by  a  country  doctor's  wife/  continued  Miss 
Hamilton,  examining  the  trinket  yet  more 
closely.  '  Why,  child,  do  you  know  that  on 
every  link  there  is  a  letter  set  in  pearls  ? 
This  is  curious  indeed.  Did  you  know  of 
it?' 

'  Yes,  Miss  Edith,'  said  Elsie  listlessly. 
'All  the  letters  put  together  read,  "After 
dishonour  death."  My  cousin  Hew  spelled  it 
out  for  me  one  night  at  Lintlaw/ 

'  I  must  ask  Keith  to  what  family  that  crest 
and  motto  belong.  He  knows  all  that  kind 
of  things,'  said  Miss  Hamilton  decidedly. 
'  Was  there  never  any  mystery  about  your 
birth,  Elsie?' 

'  None/  smiled  Elsie.  '  We  concluded  at 
Lintlaw  that  my  mother  had  got  it  from  some 
of  the  great  ladies  round  about.  Ormiston.  She 
was  greatly  beloved  by  everybody.' 

'  Ah,  that  is  a  very  likely  explanation ; 
still  I  shall  ask  Keith.  Well,  my  child,  are 
you  really  unable  to  go  out  with  me  this 
afternoon  ? ' 

4  If  you  would  be  so  kind,  Miss  Edith,  I 
would  gladly  lie  still  a  little ;  my  head  aches 


MY  GRAND-DAUGHTER.  137 

badly,  and  I  feel  so  wearied.  I  don't  know 
what  to  do.' 

*  That  is  bad.  They  were  telling  me  in 
the  Row  yesterday  that  my  Scotch  rose  was 
losing  its  bloom  ;  we  mustn't  send  you  back  a 
lily  to  Lintlaw,  must  we,  Elsie?  Well,  good- 
bye ;  try  to  sleep,  and  be  fresh  for  the  evening. 
I  want  you  to  look  your  very  loveliest  this 
evening  for  my  friends.' 

Such  words  of  honeyed  flattery  might  well 
have  turned  a  wiser  head  than  Elsie  Beatoun's, 
but  though  she  had  enjoyed  for  a  little  the 
wonderful  change  this  was  to  her,  her  heart 
was  at  home  with  Hew  and  the  dear  ones 
at  Lintlaw.  She  had  scarcely  been  a  month 
in  London,  but  already  her  pure  eyes  had 
seen  through  the  hollowness  of  this  great 
world,  the  worthlessness  of  its  friendships,  the 
meanness  and  littleness  of  its  aims,  its  utter 
incapacity  to  satisfy  even  one  craving  of  a 
human  heart.  How  sweet  and  wholesome 
and  altogether  desirable  seemed  the  quiet 
working  life  at  Lintlaw,  where  every  hour  of 
every  day  brought  its  attendant  duty,  and 
where  idleness  was  a  thing  despised,  in  com- 
parison with  this  giddy  round  of  pleasure- 


138  CARLO  WRIE. 


seeking,  the  whirl  of  gaiety,  the  fleeting, 
unsatisfying  excitement  of  ball  and  rout  and 
play  to  which  Edith  Hamilton  had  out  of  her 
caprice  introduced  her.  This  visit  had  done 
Elsie  a  world  of  good.  In  four  short  weeks 
she  was  thoroughly  cured  of  her  longings 
after  the  life  of  a  fine  lady,  and  now  nothing 
on  earth  seemed  so  lovely  and  desirable  in 
her  eyes  as  to  be  home  once  more  at  Lintlaw, 
helping  Christian  to  sweep,  and  dust,  and 
iron,  and  bake,  taking  the  cows  to  and  from 
the  pasture,  and  being  initiated  by  Aunt  Effie 
into  all  the  mysteries  of  the  dairy.  Then  the 
Sabbaths  in  the  dear  old  church  of  Crichtoun, 
listening  to  the  preaching  of  Christian's  Mr. 
Laidlaw,  and  the  singing  of  old  Thomas 
Adams,  who  was  precentor  and  sexton  and 
everything  but  minister  of  Crichtoun.  How 
different  from  the  strange  institution  here 
called  the  Sabbath,  but  which  only  differed 
from  other  days  in  the  one  attendance  at 
the  neighbouring  Episcopalian  Church  of 
St  Peter's,  which  Elsie  thought  a  terrible 
heathenish  place,  just  like  the  Roman  Catholic 
Church  in  Edinburgh,  about  which  Uncle 
Davie  spoke  with  so  much  abhorrence.  It 


MY  GRAND-DAUGHTER.  139 

was  about  all  these  things  Elsie  was  thinking, 
and  her  heart  was  filled  with  unspeakable 
yearnings  for  all  she  had  loved  and  left  in 
bonnie  Scotland,  when  Mrs.  Hamilton  dis- 
turbed her  solitude. 

'  I  am  sorry  you  are  indisposed,  Elsie,'  she 
said  kindly.  '  Nay,  lie  still,  dear.  I  have  just 
come  to  have  a  little  talk  with  you.  Edith 
monopolizes  you  so  that  there  are  few  oppor- 
tunities.' 

Elsie  smiled  slightly,  and  laid  her  head 
back  upon  her  pillow  somewhat  reassured. 
She  stood  rather  in  awe  of  the  Laird's  mother, 
and  felt  intuitively  that  it  was  not  of  her  will 
that  she  was  with  them  in  London.  Yet 
she  could  not  complain  of  coldness,  for  Mrs. 
Hamilton  was  ever  kind  and  courteous,  only 
there  was  a  something  distant  in  her  demeanour 
which  contrasted  sharply  with  the  frankness  of 
her  children. 

'  Are  you  tired  of  London  life,  Elsie  ?  You 
look  fatigued  and  a  little  nervous. 

'  I  have  not  been  well  to-day,  Mrs. 
Hamilton,  and  I  was  thinking  of  home ;  it 
made  me  a  little  sad,  that  is  all,'  replied 
Elsie  simply. 


140  CARLOWR1E. 


4  Then  you  would  like  to  go  home,  my 
child  ? '  said  Mrs.  Hamilton,  bending  forward 
with  unmistakeable  eagerness. 

4  It  seems  ungrateful,  after  all  the  kindness 
I  have  received  from  you  and  Miss  Edith,' 
said  Elsie.  '  But  you  see  I  have  not  been 
used  to  this  kind  of  life,  and  I  am  most  at 
home  among  my  own  people.' 

4 1  am  glad  Edith  has  not  spoiled  you,'  said 
Mrs.  Hamilton,  with  satisfaction.  '  Elsie,  will 
you  answer  me  a  question  truly  ?  It  is  of 
great  importance  to  me.' 

4 1  will  do  so,  Mrs.  Hamilton,  believe  me,' 
said  Elsie  sincerely. 

4  Then,  Elsie,  tell  me,  has  there  been  any 
foolish  talk  of  love  between  the  Laird  and 
you  ?  Nay,  do  not  blush  so  painfully.  If 
there  has,  it  has  not  been  of  your  seeking,  I 
am  persuaded.' 

'  I  will  be  true,  Mrs.  Hamilton,'  said  Elsie 
calmly,  though  she  trembled  a  little.  '  Mr. 
Keith  has  spoken  words  of  love  to  me,  but  I 
have  never  listened.  You  will  believe  me, 
madam,  I  knew  too  well  what  was  befitting 
my  position  and  his,  and  I  would  never 
have  done  so  great  a  wrong  to  you,  as  to 


MY  GRAND-DA  UGHTER.  141 

listen  to  any  serious  words  he  might  have 
said.' 

'  You  are  a  good  girl,  Elsie ;  tell  me  all. 
What  has  Keith  said  to  you  ?  ' 

'  I  don't  know  that  I  am  doing  right  to  tell,' 
said  Elsie,  struggling  with  some  rebellious 
tears.  '  He  asked  me  to  be  his  wife,  Mrs. 
Hamilton,  both  here  in  London  and  at  Tyne- 
holm,  before  we  came  away,  but  I  could  never 
consent,  even  though  there  had  not  been  such 
a  difference  between  us,  because' — 

'  Because  what,  Elsie  ? ' 

1  Because  I  do  not  love  Mr.  Keith,  Mrs. 
Hamilton,  and  I  do  love  my  cousin  Hew 
Dalrymple,  whose  wife  I  am  to  be  some  day 
soon  after  I  get  back  to  Lintlaw.' 

The  lady  of  Tyneholm  breathed  a  sigh  of 
relief,  and  stooping,  took  the  slender  figure  in 
her  arms,  and  gently  kissed  her  brow. 

'You  are  a  good,  brave,  true-hearted  girl, 
Elsie  Beatoun,  and  may  God  bless  you,  and 
the  noble  young  man  you  are  to  wed.  You 
have  seen  something  of  the  world  here,  my 
dear,  and  you  can  see  that  it  is  not  the  custom 
for  those  in  our  circle  to  take  wives  from  yours. 
It  would  have  caused  a  great  deal  of  trouble.' 


142  CARLOWR1E. 


'  I  know,  but  I  never  thought  of  it  even  for 
a  moment,  Mrs.  Hamilton,'  said  Elsie,  with 
quiet  dignity.  '  Do  you  think  I  could  go 
home  to  Scotland  by  myself  before  you  return 
to  Tyneholm  ?  I  have  got  to  feel  heavy- 
hearted  somehow  about  them,  especially  about 
Aunt  Effie.  Christian  said  in  her  letter  that 
she  was  very  anxious  about  her.' 

'  It  would  be  quite  impossible  for  you  to 
return  alone  to  Scotland,  my  dear,  but  I  will 
at  once  see  about  an  escort  for  you.  If  I 
cannot  find  any  one  going,  I  shall  send  Mrs. 
Logan  with  you.  She  would  be  leaving  in  a 
week  or  two  anyhow  to  get  Tyneholm  in 
order  for  us/ 

'  Thank  you/  said  Elsie  gratefully,  for  Mrs. 
Hamilton  was  truly  kind.  There  was  a  vein 
of  self-interest  in  this  act  of  kindness,  how- 
ever, which  Elsie  was  not  sufficiently  versed 
in  the  world's  ways  to  detect.  Mrs.  Hamilton 
trembled  for  her  son.  He  was  headstrong, 
like  all  the  Cecils,  and  would  not  readily  give 
up  anything  on  which  he  had  set  his  heart. 
She  would  only  feel  at  rest  when  Elsie  was 
reigning  at  Carlo wrie  as  Hew  Dairy mple's 
wife. 


MY  GRAND-DAUGHTER.  143 

Presently  a  servant  disturbed  their  inter- 
view, saying  there  was  a  visitor  in  the  drawing- 
room.  Mrs.  Hamilton  looked  at  the  card 
handed  to  her,  and  a  slight  expression  of 
surprise  crossed  her  face.  She  had  no  ac- 
quaintance with  the  Lady  Anne  Traquair, 
and  marvelled  what  could  be  the  meaning 
of  this  visit.  She  went  down  at  once,  how- 
ever ;  then  Elsie  languidly  rose,  and  proceeded 
to  bathe  her  face  and  hands  in  cold  water, 
and  then  to  change  her  gown,  ready  for  Miss 
Hamilton's  afternoon  tea,  at  which  light 
repast  she  was  generally  joined  by  some  of 
her  lady  friends.  Elsie  could  not  account  for 
the  strange  load  oppressing  mind  and  heart. 
She  just  felt  as  if  some  great  sorrow  were 
about  to  overtake  her. 

Meanwhile,  Mrs.  Hamilton  had  entered  her 
drawing-room,  and  saw  standing  in  the  window 
the  tall  and  stately  figure  of  a  lady  whom  she 
had  never  seen  before.  From  behind,  the 
figure  looked  so  youthful  that  she  was  startled 
when  the  lady  turned  her  face,  it  was  so  worn 
and  haggard  and  grey,  and  ploughed  deep 
with  the  furrows  of  pain.  A  slight  bow  passed 
between  the  ladies  ;  then  without  noticing  Mrs. 


144  CARLOWRIE. 


Hamilton's  courteous  request  to  take  a  chair, 
Lady  Traquair  spoke  in  an  abrupt,  strange, 
harsh  voice,  very  different  from  the  musical 
intonation  of  the  lady  of  Tyneholm. 

1  You  will  doubtless  be  surprised  at  my  call, 
Mrs.  Hamilton,  and  still  more  so  when  I  tell 
you  its  object.  Passing  up  Eaton  Place  in 
my  carriage  yesterday  afternoon,  I  saw  at  your 
door  a  phaeton  containing  two  ladies,  one  of 
whom  bore  so  striking  a  resemblance  to  one 
who  was  very  dear  to  me,  that  I  could  not 
rest  until  I  made  some  inquiries  regarding 
her.  Will  you  kindly  tell  me  who  and  what 
she  is  ?  Believe  me,  I  am  actuated  by  no  mere 
curiosity ;  it  is  a  matter  of  vital  importance 
to  me.' 

What  she  said  was  true,  for  she  was 
trembling  from  head  to  foot,  and  with  diffi- 
culty commanded  her  voice  throughout  her 
speech. 

'  My  daughter  drove  in  the  park  yesterday 
afternoon,  Lady  Traquair,  and  her  companion 
was  a  young  girl  to  whom  she  took  a  fancy 
in  Scotland,  the  daughter  of  a  country  doctor, 
who,  at  his  death,  found  a  home  with  one  of 
the  farmers  on  our  estate  of  Tyneholm,'  said 


MY  GRAND-DAUGHTER.  145 

Mrs.  Hamilton  courteously,  and  beginning  to 
feel  interested,  and  even  excited. 

4  A  country  doctor ! — his  name ! — tell  me  his 
name ! '  said  the  Lady  Traquair  hurriedly. 

1  Beatoun.  He  practised  in  the  neighbour- 
ing village  of  Ormiston.  The  child's  name 
is  Elsie.' 

'  I  knew  I  could  not  be  mistaken,'  fell 
brokenly  from  the  lips  of  the  Lady  Anne,  and, 
sinking  into  a  chair,  she  covered  her  face  with 
her  trembling  hands. 

Mrs.  Hamilton  stood  looking  on  in  con* 
siderable  perplexity,  not  knowing  what  to 
think  of  the  behaviour  of  her  strange  visitor. 

'  Will  you  let  me  tell  you  a  story  ?  I  will 
be  brief,  Mrs.  Hamilton,'  said  the  Lady  Anne, 
suddenly  looking  up,  and  with  a  strong  effort 
of  her  iron  will  she  regained  her  habitual 
composure.  '  I  am  now  a  childless  and 
desolate  widow.  Two-and-twenty  years  ago 
I  lost  my  husband,  but  I  had  then  a  child, 
who  was  a  consolation  in  my  grief.  You  are 
a  mother,  madam,  therefore  I  need  not  tell 
you  how  I  loved  her.  She  was  the  light  of 
my  eyes,  the  sunshine  of  my  home,  all  I  had 

on  earth.     I  was  ambitious  for  her,  because 

13 


I4«  CARLO  WKIE. 


she  was  so  fair,  and  because  of  her  name  and 
lineage.  I  had  a  right  to  desire  for  her  an 
honourable  settlement  in  life.  I  was  dis- 
appointed. We  spent  the  greater  part  of  the 
year  then  at  Traquair,  because  my  husband 
loved  it  beyond  any  spot  on  earth,  and  for  his 
sake  it  was  dear  to  us.  In  the  neighbouring 
village  there  was  an  aged  doctor,  who  had 
been  the  family  physician  of  the  Traquairs  for 
many  years.  Being  unfit,  through  declining 
years,  to  overtake  all  his  work,  he  procured 
an  assistant,  an  able  and  handsome  young 
man.  His  name  was  Beatoun.  Do  you 
follow  me  ? ' 

Mrs.  Hamilton  bowed,  and  the  expression 
on  her  face  betrayed  her  absorbing  interest. 

'  I  will  not  weary  you  with  details  of  what 
followed.  Suffice  to  say  that  my  daughter, 
the  child  of  so  old  and  honourable  a  house, 
stooped  from  her  high  estate  to  listen  to  words 
of  love  from  this  young  man.  I  discovered 
it,  and  as  it  was  fitting,  nay,  incumbent  upon 
me  to  do,  I  tried  to  put  an  end  to  the  affair. 
It  was  useless.  After  months  of  strife  and 
estrangement,  she  left  me  for  him,  and  they 
were  married.  I  never  saw  her  face  again ; 


MY  GRAND-DA  UGHTER.  147 

but  I  learned,  by  accident,  that  she  died  a 
few  years  after  her  marriage,  but  I  was 
unable  to  ascertain  whether  she  left  any 
children.' 

'  I  am  overwhelmed  with  surprise,'  said 
Mrs.  Hamilton.  '  Doctor  Beatoun  did  not 
long  survive  his  wife,  and  Elsie  was  their  only 
child.  She  was  taken  care  of  for  some  time 
by  a  brother  of  her  father's,  also  a  tenant  on 
our  lands.  But  he  came  to  an  untimely  end 
through  an  accident,  and  then  Elsie  found  a 
home  with  the  Dalrymples  of  Lintlaw,  the 
farmer's  people  to  whom  I  referred  before.' 

The  Lady  Anne  bowed. 

'How  is  it  she  comes  to  be  here  with 
you  ?' 

'  My  daughter  took  a  fancy  to  her  when  we 
were  in  Scotland,  and  the  whims  of  a  delicate 
person  have  to  be  humoured,  Lady  Traquair. 
You  have  come  most  opportunely,  for  I  was 
about  to  make  arrangements  for  her  return  to 
her  friends.  She  is  home-sick,  poor  child. 
What  course  do  you  intend  to  pursue  ? ' 

1  She  is  my  grand-daughter,  Mrs.  Hamilton, 
and  henceforth  her  home  will  be  with  me. 
She  had  no  claim  upon  these  people  of  whom 


148  CARLOWRIE. 


you  speak ;  but  I  shall  see  that  they  do  not 
go  unrewarded/  said  Lady  Traquair.  But 
Mrs.  Hamilton  smiled  a  little  sadly. 

'  I  am  afraid  any  reward  you  may  offer  will 
be  refused.  Nothing  will  make  up  to  them 
for  the  loss  of  Elsie,'  said  she,  but  did  not  let 
Elsie's  secret  out  of  her  keeping. 

There  was  time  enough.  Oh  yes,  time 
enough  ;  and  Mrs.  Hamilton  foresaw  many  an 
hour  of  pain  coming  for  Elsie.  The  unbroken 
sunshine  of  her  girlhood,  the  calm,  sweet, 
beautiful  life  among  those  true  Scottish  hearts, 
were  over  now  for  evqr.  Involuntarily  the 
lady's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

*  You  will,  I  presume,  desire  to  see  Elsie  ? ' 
she  said  at  length. 

'  If  you  please.' 

4  You  will  wait  a  little  till  I  prepare  her  for 
what  is  coming ;  she  is  nervous  and  out  of 
sorts  to-day,'  said  Mrs.  Hamilton. 

1 1  will ;  but  be  as  brief  as  possible,  Mrs. 
Hamilton.  I  am  an  old  woman,  and  patience 
is  not  one  of  the  crowning  virtues  of  age.' 

With  slow  and  heavy  step  the  lady  of 
Tyneholm  ascended  the  stair  to  Edith's 
dressing-room.  The  task  before  her  was 


MY  GRAND-DAUGHTER.  149 

one  from  which  she  shrank,  for  she  could 
not  think  that  the  news  that  there  was  one 
with  a  nearer  claim  upon  her  than  those  at 
Lintlaw  would  be  a  pleasure  to  Elsie  Beatoun 
now.  Ah  no !  for  her  heart  had  found  its  best 
love  and  rest  across  the  border  by  the  green 
and  flowery  braes  of  Crichtoun. 

1  Elsie,  my  child,  there  is  a  lady  in  the 
drawing-room  wishing  to  see  you,'  she  said, 
plunging  into  the  subject  at  once.  •  You 
must  be  prepared  for  a  very  great  surprise, 
my  love.  I  hardly  know  how  to  break  it  to 
you.' 

The  lovely  face  flushed  deeply.  Oh,  how 
fair  she  looked  in  her  sweet,  cool  muslin  dress, 
with  its  trimmings  of  lace !  how  desirable  for 
either  man  or  woman  to  see  in  a  home ! 

1  My  dear,  do  you  know  nothing  about 
your  mother's  life  or  history  previous  to  her 
marriage  ?  Has  no  one  ever  told  you  ?' 

'  Lisbeth  Fairlie  used  to  tell  me  often  that 
the  best  blood  in  Scotland  flowed  in  my  veins  ; 
and  I  have  heard  that  my  mother's  was  a 
runaway  marriage,  Mrs.  Hamilton,'  replied 
Elsie,  with  wondering  eyes.  '  But  I  thought 
it  was  just  a  romance  of  Lisbeth's  foolish  brain.' 


150  CARLOWRIE. 


'  It  was  true,  Elsie ;  your  mother  was  a 
Traquair,  child,  the  only  daughter  of  Sir 
Howard  and  Lady  Anne  Traquair  of  Tra- 
quair and  Glenshee.  My  dear  girl,  this  is 
likely  to  be  an  eventful  visit  for  you.' 

'  Well,  but  what  is  all  this  about,  Mrs. 
Hamilton?  Who  is  downstairs?'  asked  Elsie, 
beginning  to  tremble,  she  could  not  tell  why. 

'  Can  you  not  guess,  my  dear  ?  Be  calm  ; 
don't  look  at  me  so  strangely.  It  is  your 
grandmother,  who  is  waiting  to  fold  you  to 
her  heart.  Come,  let  me  take  you  to  her.' 

Like  one  in  a  dream,  Elsie  allowed  herself 
to  be  led  downstairs.  She  was  unable,  as  yet, 
to  comprehend  this  strange  thing  which  had 
befallen  her.  She  followed  Mrs.  Hamilton 
timidly  into  the  room,  and  her  eyes  travelled 
with  one  swift  glance  to  the  face  of  the  woman 
waiting  there.  Then  a  cry  rang  through  the 
stillness,  wrung  from  the  yearning  depths  of 
the  desolate  old  woman,  who  saw  before  her 
the  living  image  of  the  daughter  who,  in  her 
eyes,  had  brought  great  dishonour  upon  the 
house  of  Traquair. 

*  Come  to  me,  Elsie,  my  child,  my  darling, 
I  am  your  grandmother,'  she  said;  and  the 


M  Y  GRAND- DA  UGHTER.  \  5 1 

next  minute  she  gathered  the  slender  figure 
in  her  arms  with  a  clasp  which  seemed  to  say, 
'  I  will  never  let  you  go.' 

It  was  prophetic  of  the  struggle  to  come. 
The  bitter  conflict  with  an  indomitable  will ; 
the  sore,  sore  battle  between  love  and  duty, 
which  in  years  gone  by  had  so  riven  the  heart 
of  poor  Elsie  Traquair,  was  destined  to  be 
repeated  in  the  experience  of  her  child,  with 
what  ending  who  could  tell  ? 


CHAPTER  X. 


NEWS     OF     ELSIE. 

!ISS  RITCHIE'S  peacock  had  taken 
what  she  called  a  stravagin'  turn,  and 
could  not  be  seen  about  the  doors 
nor  in  the  barnyard  at  Scotstoun.  Imme- 
diately after  the  twelve  o'clock  dinner,  Miss 
Ritchie  left  her  brother  snoozing  in  his  arm- 
chair, and  emerged  forth  in  search  of  the 
truant  bird.  She  wandered  up  the  Moss 
Road,  eyeing  the  fields  on  either  side,  and 
thence  up  to  the  Camp  Wood.  Now  the  day 
was  warm,  and  Miss  Ritchie  wore  a  gown  of 
thick  linsey-woolsey,  so  that  she  found  her 
ascent  up  the  stony  way  rather  toilsome.  She 
went  a  few  yards  into  the  wood,  calling  her 
pet  by  his  name,  and  also  anathematizing  him 
in  an  undertone  to  herself,  as  a  '  wanderin' 

151 


NEWS  OF  ELSIE.  153 


crater,'  a  '  stravagin'  brute,'  and  sundry  other 
epithets  peculiarly  her  own.  That  King  John 
should  have  wandered  to-day  was  particularly 
aggravating  to  Miss  Ritchie,  for  she  had  it  in 
her  mind  to  take  a  walk  up  to  Lintlaw  in  the 
afternoon,  and  perhaps  drink  tea  with  Mrs. 
Dairy mple.  Miss  Ritchie  had  not  many 
friends  in  the  neighbourhood,  for  she  was 
rather  an  eccentric  being;  but  the  gentle 
mistress  of  Lintlaw  had  found  the  right  side 
of  her,  and  had  a  warm  liking  and  respect  for 
her.  The  bairns  poked  fun  at  her  old-fashioned 
clothes,  her  plain  appearance  and  abrupt  man- 
ner, but  they  all  liked  well  enough  to  pay  a 
visit  to  Scotstoun,  for  Miss  Ritchie's  pantry 
held  many  wonderful  and  tasty  bites  made 
by  her  own  skilful  hands.  Her  brother  was 
just  as  eccentric  as  herself,  and  they  lived  in 
a  state  of  harmless  warfare  with  each  other, 
which  was  very  amusing  to  outsiders.  After 
an  hour's  fruitless  search,  she  returned  to 
Scotstoun,  out  of  breath  and  out  of  temper, 
and  encountered  her  brother  in  the  fair 
way  to  set  the  men  their  afternoon's  work. 

4  Whaur   hae  ye  been,  Ailie  ? '    he  asked, 
with  a  comical  smile. 


154  CARLO  WRIE. 


'  Oh,  ye  ken  fine.  Whaur  could  I  be  but 
awa'  huntin'  efter  that  ill  beast  ?  '  she  snapped. 
'He's  a  perfect  plague.' 

'  Whaur  did  'e  gang  to  look  for  him,  Ailie  ? ' 
asked  Geordie  Ritchie  slyly. 

'  Gang !  I've  been  ower  every  field  on 
Scotstoun,  an'  cryin'  him  through  the  Camp 
Wud  as  weel/quoth  Miss  Ritchie  grimly.  '  I'se 
warrand  I'll  thraw  his  neck  when  he  comes 
hame.' 

'  I'll  tell  'e  what,  Ailie,  if  ye  gang  up  to 
Newland  Burn,  ye'll  find  him  sittin'  on  Robbie 
Blair's  midden-dyke,  I  could  lay  ye  a  sax- 
pence,'  said  Scotstoun  slyly. 

'  Ye're  a  perfeck  fule,  Geordie  Ritchie,'  said 
Ailie  scornfully ;  nevertheless  the  colour  rose 
in  her  cheek,  and  she  was  fain  to  move  on  to 
the  house  to  hide  it.  It  was  common  talk  in 
the  country-side  just  then  that  Robbie  Blair 
was  courting  Geordie  Ritchie's  sister,  and  it 
was  looked  upon  as  a  very  suitable  match. 
Having  tidied  up  the  parlour,  and  given  what 
directions  were  required,  Miss  Ritchie  dressed 
herself  in  her  second  best,  and  went  away 
about  three  o'clock  to  Lintlaw. 

When  she  got  to  her  own  road   end,  she 


NEWS  OF  ELSIE.  155 


bethought  herself  that  she  might  as  well  see 
whether  King  John  had  really  landed  at  New- 
land  Burn,  especially  as  Geordie  Blair  would 
be  sure  to  be  busy  in  his  hay  field,  and  would 
not  be  likely  to  see  her. 

Miss  Ritchie  was  a  person  who  never 
hesitated  long  over  anything,  so  she  went  past 
Lintlaw  road  end,  and  turned  up  the  leafy 
lane  to  Newland  Burn.  And  there,  sure 
enough,  was  King  John,  airing  himself  with 
his  magnificent  tail  fully  spread  on  the  top 
spar  of  the  garden  gate.  He  quickly  lowered 
it,  however,  at  sight  of  his  mistress,  and  flew 
to  meet  her.  He  was  as  tame  as  were  the 
pigeons  at  Lintlaw,  and  they  hopped  about 
the  kitchen  floor  quite  familiarly.  Miss 
Ritchie  administered  a  severe  reproof  to 
King  John,  and  he  followed  her  quite  demurely 
up  the  road,  just  as  a  dog  might  have  done. 
So  she  had  just  to  take  him  with  her  to 
Lintlaw. 

Miss  Ritchie  had  to  pass  the  hay  field  in 
order  to  get  into  the  path  leading  to  Lintlaw, 
and  of  course  Robbie  Blair  must  needs  be 
standing  near  the  gate  when  she  approached. 
Miss  Ritchie  drew  down  her  thick  spotted 


I  $6  CARLOWRIE. 


veil,   and    marched    bravely   on,    King   John 
following  consequentially  in  the  rear. 

'  It's  a  fine  afternoon,  Miss  Ritchie/  said 
Robbie  Blair,  who  was  a  big  strapping  fellow, 
who  might  have  won  any  woman's  fancy. 
*  It  wasna  fair  o'  'e  to  pass  my  door.' 

'  I'm  gaun  on  a  parteekler  errand  to  Lint- 
law,  Mr.  Blair,'  said  Miss  Ritchie  somewhat 
stiffly.  '  I  had  to  come  round  this  way  seekin' 
for  Jock.  He's  a  stravagin'  beast ;  it's  half 
my  wark  lookin'  efter  him.' 

'  Jock  often  comes  here.  I  whiles  think  he 
likes  Newland  Burn  better  than  Scotstoun. 
I  wish  the  same  could  be  said  o'  his  mistress,' 
said  Robbie  Blair,  plucking  up  more  courage 
than  he  had  ever  shown  before. 

'  Weel,  I'm  sure  Scotstoun  yett  gets  the  sun 
better  nor  yours;  but  Jock's  a  fule,  like  the 
lave  o'  the  men  folk,'  quoth  Miss  Ritchie 
brusquely,  and  strode  away.  Her  manner 
might  well  have  disconcerted  any  suitor  but 
easy-going  Robbie  Blair ;  he  was  in  no  hurry, 
and  did  not  despair  of  one  day  persuading  the 
worthy  housekeeper  of  Scotstoun  to  become 
the  mistress  of  the  cosy  biggin'  at  Newland 
Burn.  By  the  time  Miss  Ritchie  reached 


NEWS  OF  ELSIE.  157 


Lintlaw,  she  had  quite  recovered  her  temper 
and  her  self-possession,  and  was  able  to  show 
Christian  a  placid  and  unruffled  countenance 
when  she  opened  the  door  to  her. 

How  sweet  and  neat  and  comely  looked 
Christian  in  her  new  calico  dress,  with  spotless 
linen  collar  and  cuffs,  and  dainty  apron,  which 
she  had  embroidered  with  her  own  hands ! 
It  was  always  refreshing  to  see  Christian 
Dalrymple,  and,  like  many  more,  Miss  Ritchie 
thought  there  was  not  her  equal  in  the  country- 
side. 

1  Is  yer  mither  weel,  Kirsten  ? '  she  asked 
when  she  was  ushered  into  the  pleasant 
parlour,  which  was  made  cool  and  fragrant 
with  the  flowers  which  filled  the  vases  on  the 
mantel  and  the  big  China  bowl  on  the  side- 
board. 

'  Just  as  usual,  thank  you,  Miss  Ritchie. 
She  aye  lies  down  for  a  wee  in  the  afternoons 
now/  replied  Christian. 

'  Come  and  take  off  your  bonnet,  and  you 
can  crack  to  me  till  mother  comes  down. 
She  will  not  be  long ;  she  likes  her  tea 
at  four  now.  A  perfect  old  wife  mother  is 
turning.' 


158  CARLOWRIE. 


'  I'll  jist  lay  my  bonnet  down  here,'  said 
Miss  Ritchie.  *  I'll  no'  bide  lang.  Ye  look 
weel,  Kirsten.  The  thocht  o1  matrimony's 
surely  greein'  wi'  ye.' 

Christian  blushed  slightly,  and  took  up  her 
stocking  without  making  any  reply. 

'What  made  ye  bring  King  John  wi'  ye, 
Miss  Ritchie  ? '  she  asked,  seeing  his  majesty 
strutting  about  the  green  in  front.  '  I  never 
knew  of  anybody  taking  a  peacock  out  to 
drink  tea  before.' 

'  I  couldna  help  it ;  he's  the  stravaginest 
beast.  I  got  him  at  Newland  Burn,  an'  was 
obliged  to  bring  him.  But  whaur  hae  ye 
gottin'  this  bonnie  wee  crater?'  queried  Miss 
Ritchie,  rising  to  examine  more  closely  a 
beautiful  yellow  canary  hanging  in  a  pretty 
cage  above  their  heads. 

'  Elsie  sent  that  to  Davie,  just  after 
she  went  to  London,'  said  Christian,  and 
somehow  her  voice  took  a  sadder  tone. 
1  It  wad  make  ye  laugh  to  see  the  work 
mother  makes  wi'  Dickie,  jist  because  Elsie 
sent  it.' 

'  When  did  ye  last  hear  frae  Elsie,  Kirsten  ?' 
inquired  Miss  Ritchie,  with  eagerness. 


NEWS  OF  ELSIE.  159 

'  It's  a  lang  time,'  said  Christian,  and  her 
soft  eyes  filled  with  tears.  '  If  we  didna 
ken  her  sae  weel,  we  could  think  she  had 
forgotten  us  'mong  the  braw  folks.  I'm  wae 
for  Hew,  Miss  Ritchie,  he's  that  dowie.  It's 
no'  richt  o'  Elsie  no'  to  write  to  him.' 

'  She  was  in  Lunnon  when  ye  last  heard  ?  * 
said  Miss  Ritchie. 

'  Yes,'  answered  Christian,  in  some  surprise. 
'  We  hear  they're  comin'  to  the  big  house  next 
month,  so  we'll  surely  see  her  then.' 

'  I  had  a  letter  this  mornin',  Kirsten,  frae 
my  cousin  Betsy  Ritchie,  wha,  as  ye  hae 
heard  me  say,  is  a  cook  in  England  wi'  Leddy 
Traquair  at  Lyndon  Priory.  There's  unco 
news  aboot  Elsie  in't,  Kirsten.' 

Christian's  knitting  fell  to  her  lap,  and  her 
sweet  eyes  dilated  with  sudden  dread. 

1  News  o'  oor  Elsie  in  a  letter  from 
Betsy  Ritchie!'  exclaimed  she,  in  conster- 
nation. '  Guid  or  bad  ?  tell  me  quick,  Miss 
Ritchie.' 

*  It's  no'  easy  kennin'  whether  it's  guid  or 
bad,  Kirsten,  though  some  wad  ca'd  guid 
fortune  for  Elsie.  Ye  hae  heard,  of  course, 
that  Doctor  Beatoun's  marriage  was  a  rinawa' 


160  CARLOWRIE. 


ane,  an*  that  his  wife  was  o'  gentle  folk.  It 
seems  she  was  a  Traquair,  Kirsten,  an'  her 
mither  the  Lady  Anne,  Betsy's  mistress,  has 
fa'n  in  wi'  Elsie  in  Lunnon,  an',  bein'  her 
gran'mither,  has  claimed  her,  an'  ta'en  her 
awa'  hame  to  Lyndon.  So  it's  as  like  as  no' 
ye'll  no'  see  muckle  o'  her  noo.' 

Christian  stared  in  bewilderment,  and  then 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  It  was  a 
terrible  blow  to  her,  and  what  would  it  be  to 
her  mother  and  Hew,  to  whom  Elsie  was 
doubly  dear  ? 

'She  should  have  written.  She  will  write 
yet  to  tell  us  about  this  strange  thing  which 
has  befallen  her,'  she  said  at  length.  '  Will  it 
be  true,  Miss  Ritchie,  think  ye  ?' 

4  True  as  gospel.  Betsy  wrote  just  to  tell 
me.  If  Elsie  disna  write,  it'll  be  her  granny's 
blame.  She's  a  mighty  prood  woman,  an' 
never  forgave  her  dochter  for  marryin'  Doctor 
Beatoun.' 

'  I  hear  mother  stirring  up  the  stair,  Miss 
Ritchie,'  said  Christian  hurriedly,  and  lifted 
her  knitting  and  tried  to  still  her  trembling 
lips. 

4  Ye'll  no'  speak  o'd  the  noo;  I'll  tell  her 


NEWS  OF  ELSIE.  161 

quietly  mysel'.  Mother's  no'  strong,  Miss 
Ritchie,  an'  I'm  aye  feared  for  her.' 

1  I'll  mind  that,  Kirsten,'  said  Miss  Ritchie 
willingly.  *  Weel,  when's  the  waddin'  to  be  ? ' 

'  Some  time  in  September,  after  the  corn's 
a'  in,'  said  Christian,  so  upset  by  what  she  had 
heard  that  she  could  answer  quite  calmly  a 
question  which,  at  any  other  time,  might  have 
embarrassed  her.  '  Here's  mother.' 

'  Eh,  Miss  Ritchie,  what  a  stranger ! '  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Dalrymple's  pleasant  voice;  and 
when  Miss  Ritchie  rose  to  greet  her,  she  was 
most  painfully  struck  by  the  frail  appearance  of 
the  mistress  of  Lintlaw.  She  looked  like  some 
fragile  blossom  which  the  first  breath  of  a  bitter 
wind  would  break  upon  the  stalk.  Yet  she  was 
blithe  and  cheery  as  of  yore.  There  never 
was  a  shadow  on  the  sweet  motherly  face,  and 
if  there  was  pain,  it  was  borne  bravely,  and 
kept  hidden  from  those  she  loved.  Never 
had  she  been  so  unspeakably  dear  to  them  all, 
and  in  Christian's  case  there  was  a  strange  and 
fearful  clinging  of  heart  to  her  mother,  caused, 
perhaps,  by  the  thought  of  the  day  coming  so 
near  when  she  would  need  to  leave  the  old 

home,    and    by   another    undefinable  feeling 

14 


162  CARLOWR1E. 


which  seemed  to  whisper  of  even  a  sorer 
parting  than  that. 

She  sat  down  beside  Miss  Ritchie,  while 
Christian  went  away  to  see  about  the  tea,  and 
they  had  a  cosy  and  pleasant  gossip  about  the 
affairs  of  the  country-side.  There  is  no  harm 
in  such  gossip ;  nay,  rather,  it  fosters  a  kindly 
interest  in  our  neighbours  ;  it  is  that  malicious 
talk,  prompted  by  a  spirit  which  would  ever 
attribute  the  worst  motives  to  another,  that  is 
to  be  avoided  as  a  grievous  sin. 

4  Ye're  no'  lookin'  .very  stoot,  Mrs.  Dal- 
rymple,'  said  Miss  Ritchie.  '  I  doot  ye're 
workin'  ower  sair.' 

'  It's  no'  hard  wark,  Miss  Ritchie,  whatever 
it  be,'  said  the  mistress,  her  pleasant  smile  a 
trifle  graver  than  its  wont.  '  I'm  no'  weel ;  I 

o 

ken  mysel'  failin'.  Whiles,  lookin'  at  the 
laddies  an'  thinkin'  o'  Kirsten's  gaun  awa',  I 
could  sit  doon  an'  greet ;  but  that  wadna' 
mend  matters.  An'  the  Lord  never  empties 
ae  place  but  He  fills  anither  up.' 

Miss  Ritchie  leaned  forward  in  real  con- 
cern, but  just  then  the  mistress  held  up  a 
warning  forefinger,  for  Christian's  step  was 
heard  in  the  passage,  so  the  subject  was 


NEWS  Of  ELSIE.  163 


changed  once  more.  Just  before  milking-time 
that  night,  when  Christian  and  her  mother 

o        ' 

were  taking  a  little  stroll  in  the  garden  to  see 
whether  any  of  the  blackberries  were  ready 
for  use,  she  gently  broke  to  her  the  substance 
of  Miss  Ritchie's  nqws. 

Mrs.  Dairy mple  stood  still  against  the 
garden  dyke,  and  the  little  plaid  shawl  fell 
from  her  head,  while  she  looked  at  Christian 
with  dumbfoundered  eyes. 

'  Oh,  Kirsten,  woman,  this  is  ill,  ill  news ! ' 
she  said,  with  quivering  lip,  for  her  heart  was 
hungering  very  sore  for  sweet  Elsie,  Hew's 
promised  wife. 

'  Ye  believe  it  to  be  true,  then,  mother  ? ' 
said  Christian,  a  little  unsteadily. 

'  Ower  true,'  said  the  mistress,  shaking  her 
head.  '  An*  what's  to  become  o'  Hew, 
Kirsten  ?  He's  that  set  on  the  bairn,  that 
this  '11  tak'  a'  the  pith  oot  o'  him.' 

'  But  she'll  come  back,  mother,'  said  Chris- 
tian cheerily;  'she's  Hew's  promised  wife. 
She's  a  woman  grown  now,  and  naebody  daur 
keep  her  again  her  will/ 

Yet  still  the  mistress  shook  her  head. 
'  Lassie,  great  folks  are  queer,  an'  the  Tra- 


164  CARLO  WRIE. 


quair  wull  brooks  nae  contradiction.  Elsie's 
a  gentle  crater,  an'  her  spirit'll  be  easy  broken. 
It  was  an  ill  day  for  Lintlaw  an'  for  Elsie, 
when  Edith  Hamilton  took  her  awa'  to  that 
ill  toon  o'  Lunnon.' 

'  I'm  vext  for  Hew,  mother,'  said  Christian 
absently,  for  out  of  her  own  fulness  of  content 
she  could  sympathize  most  of  all  with  him. 

'  Kirsten,  bairn,  I  doot  I'll  see  Elsie  nae 
mair  this  side  o'  time/  said  Mrs.  Dalrymple 
suddenly ;  and  when  Christian  looked  sharply 
at  her  face,  it  was  turned  away  towards  the 
red  glory  of  the  sunset,  and  there  was  a 
strange,  far-off  look  in  her  wearied  eyes 
which  seemed  to  tell  of  a  soul's  deep  yearn- 
ing for  its  eternal  home. 

'  Mother ! '  was  all  that  Christian  said ;  then 
the  hands  of  mother  and  daughter  met  in  a 
convulsive  grasp,  and  for  Christian  the  worst 
was  over ;  for  now  there  need  be  no  suspense, 
and  some  day  soon  there  would  be  a  Lintlaw 
without  a  mother.  Is  it  not  strange,  what 
deep  strength  comes  to  us  in  such  moments 
of  keen  agony,  and  how  we  are  lifted  out  %of 
ourselves,  sometimes,  up  to  the  very  hill  of 
God?  Christian  knew  that  her  mother  was 


NEW!>  OF  ELSIE.  165 


but  leaving  this  world  for  a  better,  as  Bunyan 
quaintly  has  it ;  and  that  the  home  over  there 
was  a  happier  one  even  than  happy  Lintlaw. 

There  was  no  sleep  that  night  for  Mrs. 
Dalrymple  or  for  Christian.  The  latter  seemed 
to  be  only  entering  now  upon  the  reality  of 
life.  It  had  been  unbroken  sunshine  hitherto, 
and  if  the  clouds  gathered  now,  dared  she 
repine  ? 

The  morning  brought  a  letter  to  Mrs. 
Dalrymple,  addressed  in  a  strange,  cramped 
handwriting,  and  bearing  an  English  post- 
mark. Need  I  say  her  fingers  trembled 
sorely  when  she  broke  the  seal,  and  it  was 
a  little  time  before  she  could  sufficiently 
compose  herself  to  read  it  ?  It  ran  thus  : — 

'  LYNDON  PRIORY,  July  18,  — — 

'  MADAM, — It  is  now  my  duty  to  inform  you 
of  certain  circumstances  concerning  Elsie  Bea- 
toun,  the  young  lady  whom  you  have  had 
under  your  care  since  the  death  of  her  father 
some  years  ago.  As  I  am  confident  that  her 
unhappy  mother's  history  must  be  already 
known  to  you,  I  need  not  now  trouble  you 
with  it  She  was  my  daughter,  and  Elsie  is 


1 66  CARLOWRIE. 


my  grandchild.  As  such,  having  met  her 
in  London,  I  at  once  claimed  her.  As  she 
has  no  claim  whatsoever  upon  you,  and  as 
anything  she  has  obtained  or  might  obtain 
from  you  could  only  be  charity,  she  naturally 
makes  no  objections  whatever  to  accepting 
the  guardianship  of  one  so  nearly  related  to 
her.  But  while  thus  willing,  do  not  for  a 
moment  imagine  that  she  or  I  am  ungrateful 
for  your  past  kindness  to  her.  I  feel  that  it 
can  never  be  repaid.  If  you  could  name  any 
sum  of  money,  or  any  way  in  which  I  could 
show  my  appreciation  of  your  kindness  to  a 
Traquair,  nothing  will  give  me  greater  plea- 
sure than  to  comply  at  once  with  your  desire. 
I  am  about  to  take  my  grand-daughter  abroad 
for  a  few  months ;  but  towards  the  end  of  the 
year  I  expect  to  visit  Traquair,  and  shall  do 
myself  the  pleasure  of  again  communicating 
with  you,  probably  in  person,  regarding  what 
you  have  done  for  Miss  Beatoun.  I  am  glad 
to  say  my  dear  grand-daughter  is  in  the  best 
of  health  and  spirits,  and  that  she  has  the 
companionship  of  the  future  Laird  of  Traquair 
and  his  sister  to  beguile  the  time.  Perhaps  I 
am  premature ;  but  believing  you  to  be  deeply 


NEWS  OF  ELSIE.  167 

interested  in  her  future  welfare,  I  may  men- 
tion that  I  am  in  hopes,  and  not  without 
reason,  that  I  may  live  to  see  her  the  Lady 
of  Traquair  and  Glenshee. 

'  I  am  writing  with  Elsie's  knowledge,  and 
she  desires  her  kindly  remembrances  to  those 
who  so  befriended  her  in  the  past ;  and  she 
bids  me  add,  that  notwithstanding  the  great 
change  in  her  position  and  prospects,  she  will 
ever  retain  a  pleasant  recollection  of  her  life 
with  you. 

'  In  conclusion,  I  beg  to  state  that  any  letter 
sent  to  Lady  Traquair,  at  the  above  address, 
will  be  at  once  forwarded  to  me.  Hoping 
you  will  not  deny  me  the  satisfaction  of 
showing  substantially  my  gratitude,  and  again 
thanking  you  most  sincerely, — I  am,  madam, 
your  obedient  servant, 

'ANNE  LYNDON  TRAQUAIR.' 

That  was  the  last  news  of  Elsie  which 
came  to  Lintlaw  for  many  a  day. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

LEAVING  THIS  WORLD  FOR  A  BETTER. 

JHERE  was  a  deep,  deep,  shadow  lying 
on  Lintlaw.  The  house  was  very 
still,  morning,  noon,  and  night;  and 
when  the  laddies  came  home  from  school  at  four 
o'clock,  they  would  lay  their  books  aside  very 
quietly,  and  take  their  tea  without  the  usual 
clamour,  not  grumbling  even  though  Effie 
forgot  to  put  sugar  or  cream  in  the  cups ; 
for  when  mother  was  so  ill,  what  did  it 
matter  whether  they  got  tea  at  all  ?  This 
deep,  loving  concern  for  mother  had  sub- 
dued the  restless  wills  into  a  great  gentleness, 
and  Christian  marvelled  much  at  the  ready, 
helpful  spirit  displayed  by  one  and  all. 

Very  gradually  the  brief  afternoon  repose 
had  been  lengthened  out  for  the  mistress  of 

168 


LEA  VING  THIS  WORLD  POR  A  BETTER.          169 

Lintlaw,  till  the  day  came,  just  in  the  busiest 
time  of  harvest  too,  when  she  could  not  get 
up  at  all. 

The  doctor  came  from  Pathhead,  and 
another  from  Dalkeith,  ay,  and  a  great  pro- 
fessor from  Edinburgh,  at  the  bidding  of 
Mr.  Dalrymple,  but  even  their  united  skill 
could  not  infuse  new  life  into  the  feeble  and 
wasted  energies  of  the  precious  sufferer.  So, 
while  hoping  and  praying  for  the  best,  they 
tried  to  make  up  their  minds  for  what  might 
come.  Only  God,  who  witnesses  and  pities 
all  the  sorrows  of  humanity,  knew  what  that 
meant,  especially  to  the  elder  inmates  of 
Lintlaw.  When  Mrs.  Dalrymple's  illness 
became  so  serious,  all  thought  or  talk  of 
Christian's  marriage  was,  of  course,  at  once 
laid  aside.  The  providing-making  was  sus- 
pended half-way,  and  Christian  locked  it  up 
in  a  big  trunk  in  the  garret,  dropping  one 
or  two  tears  upon  it  as  she  did  so,  for  none 
but  God  knew  whether  it  would  ever  be 
finished. 

A  bountiful  harvest  was  ingathered  from 
Lintlaw  and  Carlowrie,  but  there  were  sore, 
sore  hearts  at  the  stacking  that  year,  and 


170  CARLO  WRIE. 


there  was  no  blithe  merry-making  at  the 
kirn,  when  the  fruits  of  the  earth  were  safe 
under  'thack  and  rope.'  They  came  from 
far  and  near  to  ask  for  the  mistress  of 
Lintlaw,  for  she  was  one  greatly  beloved 
not  only  by  her  own,  but  by  all  who  had 
ever  come  in  contact  with  her.  It  is  one 
of  the  mysteries  of  life  that  so  many  of 
the  shining  lights  are  quenched  while  with 
them  it  seemeth  yet  day,  and  we  cannot  find 
any  satisfactory  reason  for  such  sudden  end- 
ings to  lives  of  usefulness  and  love.  It 
indeed  seems  at  times  as  if  the  cumberers 
of  the  ground  were  favoured  with  a  long 
lease  of  life ;  but  God,  in  His  mercy,  doeth 
all  things  well. 

As  Christian  was  so  much  with  her  mother, 
Effte,  light-hearted,  rattling,  thoughtless  Erne, 
had  a  grave  charge  upon  her  shoulders,  and 
she  did  her  work  well,  though  at  times  she  was 
not  so  subservient  to  Christian  as  was  desir- 
able. The  high-spirited,  headstrong  little 
girl  required  skilful  as  well  as  firm  dealing, 
and  she  taxed  all  her  elder  sister's  energies. 
Altogether,  it  was  a  strange  and  desolate 
autumn  time  for  the  Dalrymples,  and  one 


LEAVING  THIS  WORLD  FOR  A  BETTER.         171 

which  even  the  youngest  among  them  would 
never  forget. 

One  morning,  early  in  the  autumn,  while 
Christian  was  giving  her  mother  her  breakfast, 
she  was  disturbed  by  a  dismal  wail  from 
Davie,  down-stairs.  It  was  just  about  time 
for  them  going  off  to  school,  so,  having  laid 
her  mother  back  among  her  pillows,  she  ran 
softly  down  to  see  what  was  the  matter. 

'  Wheesht !  wheesht !  bairns,'  she  said 
warningly.  '  What's  a'  the  noise  aboot  ? ' 

'  It's  Dickie,  he's  flee'd  away/  Robbie 
hastened  to  exclaim,  while  Davie  pointed 
with  a  chubby  forefinger  at  the  empty 
cage. 

'  Wha  opened  the  door  ? '  asked  Christian 
sternly,  knowing  very  well  it  was  a  trick  of 
Erne's,  who  loved  to  see  him  enjoy  his  liberty 
both  indoors  and  out  of  doors,  in  the  sunshine 
and  the  pleasant  air. 

'  It  was  me,  Kirs  ten.  It  was  sic  a  bonnie 
mornin',  an'  Dickie  was  lookin'  that  sair  oot 
at  the  sunshine.  He'll  come  back  like  he  did 
afore.' 

'  Mother  aye  said  he  wad  flee  awa'  some 
day,  an'  no'  come  back,'  said  Kirs  ten.  '  When 


CARLOWRIE. 


ye  kent  she  didna  like  us  to  let  him  oot,  ye 
shouldna  hae  dune  it,  Effie.' 

'  I'm  aye  daein'  wrang,  Kirsten,'  said  Effie 
a  little  sullenly,  for  her  small  temper  was 
easily  roused.  Christian  said  no  more,  but 
went  away  up-stairs  again  with  a  heavy  heart, 
for  it  had  been  a  treat  to  mother  to  have 
Dickie  a  little  while  in  her  room  so  long  as 
she  could  bear  his  clear,  shrill,  tuneful  notes, 
and  it  would  be  a  great  grief  to  her  to  hear 
that  he  was  gone.  When  she  awoke  in  a  little 
time  from  a  slight  slumber,  she  turned  to 
Christian  with  a  questioning  look  on  her  face, — 

'Are  the  bairns  a'  awa',  Kirsten  ?' 

'Yes,  mother,  an'  Effie's  bakin'.  I  wish 
ye  could  taste  her  scones  the  day,  just  to 
please  her.  Ye'd  wonder  to  see  how  weel 
the  bairn  does  a' thing.' 

1  Ay,'  said  the  mistress,  with  a  gleam  of  the 
dear  motherly  smile,  'that's  weel,  very  weel, 
Kirsten.  There's  the  makin'  o'  a  douce 
woman  in  oor  madcap  Effie  yet ;  but  I'm  no' 
hearin'  Dickie  cheepin'  the  day.  He's  unco 
quate.' 

'  Ay,  mother,'  said  Christian,  and  that 
was  all. 


LEA  VI NG  THIS  WORLD  FOR  A  BETTER.         173 

'  Jist  rin  doon  for  him,  Kirsten.  My  heid's 
no'  sair  the  day,  an'  I  like  to  see  an'  hear 
the  crater  for  Elsie's  sake,'  she  said ;  then 
Christian's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

'  I'm  very  vexed,  mother,  but  Effie  let  him 
oot  this  mornin',  an'  he's  awa'  fleein'  like  a 
wild  thing  ower  the  Kerse  well.  Like  as  no' 
he'll  no'  be  back  till  nicht.' 

'  Jist  like  Elsie,  Kirsten !  Lintlaw  canna 
haud  him.  There's  some  prayers  that  canna 
be  answered,  Kirsten,  this  side  the  grave. 
At  times  my  heart's  perfect  wae  for  a  sicht 
o'  Elsie,  an'  I  ken  brawly  I'll  never  see  her 
here  again.' 

Christian  was  silent,  busying  herself  arrang- 
ing the  medicine-bottles  and  other  things  on 
the  drawers-head. 

'  Come  here,  Kirsten,  my  bairn,  an'  sit 
doon  here,'  said  Mrs.  Dalrymple,  with  strange 
earnestness,  and  Christian  obeyed  at  once, 
fixing  yearning  eyes  upon  the  sweet  face,  now, 
alas !  so  worn  and  thin  and  sharpened  for  the 
approaching  change. 

'  Ye  ken,  my  lamb,  that  the  time  is  short 
noo,'  she  said,  with  an  infinity  of  tenderness, 
and  when  Christian's  womanly  head  went 


174  CARLOWRIE. 


down  suddenly  upon  the  pillows,  the  white 
thin  hand  touched  it  lovingly,  and  for  a  little 
there  was  no  more  said. 

1  Mother,  what  '11  we  do?*  came  at  length, 
almost  in  a  wail,  from  Christian's  lips. 

'  Dae  what  mony  ither  mitherless  bairns 
hae  dune  afore  ye,  Kirsten  ;  stick  to  your 
father  an'  to  each  other  ;  trust  in  God,  and 
ye'll  get  warstled  through,'  was  the  mother's 
answer,  spoken  with  the  calm  of  assured 
faith. 

It  was  long,  long  since  the  mistress  of 
Lintlaw  had  herself  faced  and  overcome  the 
ordeal  of  parting  from  all  she  loved  on  earth, 
and  now  she  was  able  to  prepare  them  for 
that  parting  also. 

'  Mother,  ye  ken  brawly  I'll  no'  leave  father 
an'  them  a','  said  Christian  by  and  by. 

'  At  the  present  time  I  ken  ye  winna,  my 
bairn ;  and  though  yer  hope  be  deferred  a 
wee,  the  blessedness  o'  yer  wifehood  '11  be  a' 
the  sweeter  when  it  comes ;  but  oh,  my  lassie, 
what  wad  I  no'  gie  to  haud  a  bairnie  o'  yours 
an'  John's  in  my  arms  jist  ance  afore  I  dee'd  ! ' 

'  An'  oh,  mother,  how  could  I  take  the 
vows  of  wifehood  or  motherhood  upon  me, 


LEAVING  THIS  WORLD  FOR  A  BETTER.         175 

an'  you  no'  there  to  help  me  ? '  said  Christian 
brokenly. 

'  I'll  be  there  in  the  spirit,  my  bairn,  though 
ye  dinna  see  me/  said  Mrs.  Dalrymple,  with 
soothing  tenderness.  '  An'  it  is  a  sweet 
thought  to  the  parted,  baith  here  and  abune, 
that  there  '11  be  ae  family  in  heaven,  an'  the 
bairns  '11  ken  their  grandmother  there  as  weel 
as  here.' 

1  Mother,  hoo  can  folk  that  havena  the 
peace  of  God  in  their  hearts  bear  sorrow  ? ' 
asked  Christian  suddenly.  '  What  despair  an* 
desolation  must  be  theirs  ! ' 

'  Ay,  bairn,  it  behoves  us  to  return  thanks 
for  the  hope  that  is  in  us,'  said  Mrs.  Dalrymple  ; 
then  she  dozed  a  little  again,  and  Christian 
stole  away  to  superintend  things  down-stairs. 

Mrs.  Dalrymple  was  not  always  able  to  talk 
thus  sensibly  and  cheerfully  ;  there  were  days 
of  depression  and  sore  pain,  days  even  when 
the  brain  was  mournfully  clouded,  and  she 
would  cry  for  '  father '  and  for  Christian,  not 
knowing  that  they  were  beside  her  ministering 
to  her  with  unutterable  tenderness  and  love. 
It  was  then  that  Christian  nearly  broke  down, 
for  her  strength  was  far  spent ;  but  for  the 


176  CARLOWRIE. 


manly  care  and  tenderness  and  devotion  of 
the  minister,  she  could  not  have  borne  up  at 
all.  So,  amid  such  heart-rendings  and  painful 
anxiety,  September  closed,  and  October* was 
ushered  in  by  an  awful  week  of  storms  such  as 
had  not  been  experienced  in  Scotland  for  many 
years.  The  wind  blew  a  hurricane  for  days, 
every  leaf  was  whirled  from  the  autumn- 
tinted  boughs,  and  in  the  wood  about  Lintlaw 
sturdy  oaks  and  tall  pines  were  torn  up  by  the 
roots  and  hurled  to  the  ground  with  tremen  • 
dous  force.  All  over  the  land  there  was  the. 
sound  of  mourning  and  woe,  because  of  the 
destruction  the  storm  had  wrought  upon  the 
sea.  Some  fishing  villages  were  deprived  -of 
all  the  bread-winners,  and  were  left  only  to  the 
widows  and  the  fatherless,  the  voice  of  whose 
mourning  went  up  to  heaven.  There  were  not 
wanting  some  who  pronounced  it  to  be  a  judg- 
ment upon  the  world,  because,  like  the  cities 
of  the  plain,  it  was  wholly  given  up  to  sin. 

Of  all  this  the  mistress  of  Lintlaw  was 
quite  unconscious.  She  now  seemed  oblivious 
of  everything  passing  around  her.  She  knew 
Christian  best,  and  seemed  troubled  and 
uneasy  when  she  was  a  moment  from  her  side. 


LEAVING  THIS  WORLD  FOR  A  BETTER.          177 

To  Christian  it  was  an  unspeakably  precious 
privilege  to  be  able  thus  to  minister  to  her 
beloved  mother  to  the  very  end.  Watching 
closely,  noting  keenly  every  change  upon  the 
beloved  face,  she  could  almost  have  foretold 
the  very  hour  of  death. 

Just  before  the  dawning  on  a  calm,  clear, 
still  morning,  the  summons  came.  Christian 
was  sitting  by  herself  (her  father  having  gone 
to  lie  down  for  a  little),  when  she  saw  the 
change.  She  hastily  ran  to  summon  him  and 
Hew,  who  had  slept  at  Lintlaw  for  a  week 
back,  just  waiting  for  the  end.  And  these 
three,  standing  in  breathless  silence  by  that 
dying  bed,  saw  the  gentle  passing  of  the  spirit 
away  from  the  mortal  clay.  There  was  no 
struggle  nor  pain,  nor  anything  to  alarm  or 
distress,  only  one  look  of  unutterable  love, 
an  upward  glance,  the  glimmer  of  a  lovely 
smile,  then  the  gentle  closing  of  the  wearied 
eyes, — and  the  red  October  sun  rose  upon 
motherless  Lintlaw. 


CHAPTER    XII. 


SACRED  HOURS. 

jHE  days  which  followed  were  hal- 
lowed to  all  beneath  the  roof-tree 
of  Lintlaw.  Many  tears  fell,  many 
heart- yearnings  swept  like  the  wave  of  a 
great  sea  over  the  bereft,  but  a  little  while 
spent  in  the  best  bedroom  where  the  sleeper 
lay  stilled  them  all.  For  there  was  peace, 
unutterable  peace.  Mrs.  Dairy mple's  face 
had  ever  been  a  sweet  and  pleasant  one  to 
look  upon,  but  of  late  had  been  drawn  and 
pinched  by  her  weariness  and  pain.  Now  all 
these  sad  lines  were  smoothed  away,  and  there 
lay  upon  the  pillow  a  face  to  which  the  bloom 
of  youth  had  been  restored, — liker  the  face 
of  sweet  Effie  Baillie,  who  thirty  years  before 
had  come  a  young  and  winsome  bride  to 

178 


SACRED  HOURS.  179 


Lintlaw.  Mr.  Dalrymple  was  much  in  the 
room,  but  of  his  sorrow  I  cannot  write.  For 
thirty  years  she  had  been  his  darling,  the 
mother  of  his  children,  the  partaker  of  life's 
care  and  joy,  his  dearest  upon  the  earth ;  and 
now  she  was  gone.  Not  yet  did  he  realize 
the  full  extent  of  this  sorrow  which  had  over- 
taken him.  She  had  been  the  solace  of  his 
sad  hours,  the  smoother  away  of  care ;  Tier 
gentle  spirit  had  softened  his  harsher  moods, 
had  taught  him  more  of  that  charity  which 
suffereth  long  and  is  kind,  and  he  had  yet  to 
learn  the  hardness  of  life  without  that  blessed 
influence.  He  did  not  say  much,  nor  make 
any  outward  display  of  grief,  because  to  one 
of  his  race  and  nature  it  was  impossible.  But 
beneath  there  was  a  tumult  of  yearning, 
agonizing  pain,  which  none  guessed  save 
Christian.  She  saw  the  contraction  of  the 
brows,  the  lines  deepening  about  the  mouth, 
the  strange,  restless  expression  in  the  deep 
eyes,  and  prayed  with  all  her  soul  for  her 
father,  knowing  that  the  light  of  his  life  had 
gone  out 

After  the  labours  of  the    day   were   over, 
Christian  stole  up  just  at  the  darkening  with 


l8o  CARLOWRIE. 


some  sprigs  of  lavender  and  bits  of  white 
honesty,  the  only  blossoms  which  had  survived 
the  storm,  and  these  she  laid  upon  the  pillow, 
and  put  a  spray  in  a  glass  on  the  dressing- 
table.  While  she  was  thus  occupied,  the  door 
opened  softly,  and  Davie  stole  in.  The  room 
was  full  of  shadows,  and  he  did  not  observe 
Christian  at  once,  for  the  dressing-table  stood 
at  the  other  side  of  the  room  from  the  bed. 
He  carried  in  his  hand  a  little  machine  upon 
which  he  had  been  busily  engaged  for  weeks, 
for  Davie  was  quite  a  genius  in  his  way,  and 
had  a  turn  for  inventing  all  sorts  of  curious 
things,  which  were  not  of  much  use  save  that 
they  showed  the  bent  of  his  mind.  If  Davie 
were  out  of  the  way,  he  was  sure  to  be  found 
over  at  the  railway  bridge  recently  erected  at 
Borthwick,  watching  the  passing  of  the  trains, 
and  puzzling  his  head  over  the  construction 
and  working  of  the  engines,  which  were  more 
interesting  to  him  than  all  the  live  stock  on 
the  farm.  It  was  clear  that  Davie  would 
never  follow  his  father's  occupation,  but,  when 
the  time  came,  would  be  likely  to  turn  his 
attention  to  engineering.  His  mother  had 
ever  taken  a  deep  and  lively  interest  in  his 


• 


SACRED  HOURS.  181 

inventions,  and  as  he  had  only  that  day 
brought  his  beloved  little  engine  to  perfection, 
he  had  come  running  to  let  mother  see  it, 
forgetting  that  the  dear  eyes  had  closed  for 
ever  on  all  earthly  things. 

Christian  stood  in  breathless  stillness  watch- 
ing while  he  climbed  up  on  the  chair,  and 
pulled  down  the  cover  from  his  mother's  face. 

'  Mother !  mother !  open  yer  een.  I've 
gotten  my  engine  to  gang ;  look  at  it,  mother,' 
he  said  piteously ;  but  for  the  first  time  in  all 
his  little  life  he  found  mother  deaf  to  his 
entreaty.  Then  Christian  saw  him  stroke  her 
cheek  with  his  black  fingers,  and,  as  if  chilled 
by  the  touch,  he  broke  out  into  a  bitter  wail. 
She  came  forward,  and,  lifting  him  in  her 
arms,  tried  to  comfort  him,  though  her  own 
tears  were  falling  all  the  while. 

*  Mother'll  no'  look  at  my  engine,1  he  sobbed; 
but  Christian  kissed  him,  and  said  she  would 
look  at  it,  and  help  him  as  best  she  could.  So 
the  little  heart  was  comforted,  and  by  and  by 
he  went  away  quite  contentedly  down-stairs. 
Then  Christian  shut  the  door,  and,  kneeling 
down  by  the  bedside,  consecrated  herself  to 
the  love  and  service  of  her  father  and  the 


1 82  CAKLOWR1E. 


rest  so  long  as  they  needed  her.  It  must  not 
be  supposed  that  it  was  no  sacrifice  to  Christian 
Dalrymple  to  give  up  her  own  happiness  just 
when  it  was  within  her  reach.  She  was  just 
like  other  women,  with  the  same  deep  yearning 
to  build  up  a  home  for  herself,  but  she  was 
one  who  would  never  shirk  a  duty  whatever  it 
might  involve  for  herself.  She  accepted  this 
cross  with  a  beautiful  and  pathetic  patience, 
without  saying  anything  about  it  or  grumbling 
even  inwardly  that  she  should  be  called  upon 
to  bear  it.  That  saintly  face  on  the  pillow, 
hallowed  by  the  peace  of  that  heaven  whither 
the  spirit  had  gone,  was  a  noble  incentive,  a 
mute  guide  and  beacon-light  to  all  that  was 
lovely  and  unselfish  and  truly  good. 

Christian  prayed  too  with  all  the  earnestness 
of  her  heart  that  she  might  be  helped  to  fill 
her  mother's  place  so  far  as  lay  in  her  power, 
so  that  the  blank  might  not  be  so  terribly  felt 
in  Lintlaw.  After  these  quiet  moments  she 
rose  refreshed  and  strengthened,  and,  bending 
down,  kissed  with  loving  lips  the  sweet  still 
face  lying  upon  the  pillow.  Just  then  there 
came  a  low  knock  to  the  bedroom  door,  and 
Effie's  head  peeped  round  it. 


SACRED  HOURS.  183 


'  The  minister's  here,  Kirsten,'  she  said,  in  a 
whisper.  '  Wull  ye  come  doon  ? ' 

'  Bid  him  come  up,  Effie,  please.  Tell  him 
I'm  in  the  best  room,'  whispered  Christian 
back ;  for  she  felt  that  she  would  be  alone 
with  her  lover  in  the  first  meeting  after  her 
bereavement.  Mr.  Laidlaw  had  been  away 
at  Pencaitland  supplying  the  pulpit  of  a 
brother  minister,  and  so  had  not  been  at 
Lintlaw  for  a  few  days.  Christian  stole  out 
after  Effie,  across  the  lobby  and  into  the 
best  room,  where  presently  she  was  joined 
by  Mr.  Laidlaw.  When  she  heard  him 
come,  she  moved  to  him  almost  blindly,  and 
buried  her  face  on  his  breast.  She  was  not 
often  even  thus  demonstrative,  but  to-night 
her  heart  wa3  overcharged  by  the  sadness 
of  the  present,  and  all  the  difficulty  of  the 
future. 

'  May  God  comfort  you,  my  Christian/  said 
the  minister,  in  low  and  tender  tones.  '  It 
was  a  great  grief  to  me  that  I  could  not 
be  with  you  when  the  end  came.' 

1  We  were  wonderfully  sustained ;  but  oh, 
John,  John,  how  can  we  live  without  mother?' 
Then  there  came  a  flood  of  passionate  tears, 


CARLO  WRIE. 


the  first  Christian  had  shed,  and  they  brought 
healing  with  them. 

1  For  her  it  is  great  gain,  my  dearest,'  said 
the  minister,  gently  stroking  the  head  bowed 
upon  his  breast  That  caress  so  soothed 
Christian,  that  before  very  long  she  was  able 
to  look  at  him  with  a  smile. 

'What  good  you  do  me,  John!'  she  said. 
'  I  knew  I  should  be  better  when  you 
came.' 

'  I  thank  God  I  am  so  much  to  you,  Chris- 
tian, for  it  gives  me  the  hope  that  when  you 
are  my  precious  wife,  I  shall  be  able  to  smooth 
away  every  care  and  sorrow  from  your  heart,' 
he  said  tenderly. 

*  When  I  am  your  wife,  John ! '  repeated 
Christian  wistfully,  for  her  heart  was  hunger- 
ing to  be  his  for  time  and  for  eternity.  '  Oh, 
John,  when  can  that  be  now  ? ' 

1  In  a  few  months'  time,  my  dearest  It 
would  be  no  disrespect  to  your  mother's  angel 
memory  though  there  should  be  a  quiet  wed- 
ding at  Lintlaw.  She  in  heaven  would  be 
glad  both  with  and  for  us/  said  the  minister. 
Then,  to  his  surprise,  Christian  withdrew 
herself  from  his  clasp,  and  stood  a  little 


SACRED  HOURS.  185 


aside,  looking  at  him  with  a  mingling  of 
pathos  and  resolution  on  her  face. 

'John,  I  promised  mother  to  stay  with 
father  for  a  little  while.  When  you  think 
of  all  there  is  to  do, — of  father  and  his 
loneliness,  of  Erne  and  the  rest,  and  Davie 
just  a  bairn  yet, — I'm  sure  you  would  not 
ask  me,  John,  to  come  for  a  little  while.' 

The  minister  looked  at  her  for.  a  moment 
in  surprise ;  then  he  turned  and  walked 
away  over  to  the  east  window,  from  whence, 
in  the  clear,  bright  moonlight,  he  could  plainly 
see  the  roof-tree  of  the  Manse,  which  even 
now  was  being  set  in  order  for  its  mistress. 
These  were  bitter  moments  for  the  minister 
of  Crichtoun.  How  could  he  give  her  up  ? 
how  lay  aside  for  an  indefinite  time  all  the 
sweet  visions  and  lovely  hopes  which  had  of 
late  so  clustered  round  his  home,  making  its 
loneliness  less  hard  to  bear  ?  These  were 
moments  of  agony,  sharp  and  keen,  also  to 
the  heart  of  Christian  Dalrymple.  For  a 
little  the  silence  was  intense,  painful  almost 
beyond  endurance.  Then  with  tottering  step 
she  crossed  the  room  and  gently  touched  his 
arm. 

16 


i86  CARLO \VR1E. 


1  John,  speak  to  me,  or  I  shall  die,'  she  said 
brokenly. 

Then  his  arms  closed  about  her,  and  she 
felt  them  trembling. 

1  It  was  but  for  a  moment,  my  darling ;  the 
bitterness  is  past.  You  are  a  good  and  noble 
woman,  my  Christian,  of  whom  I  am  not 
worthy.  We  will  wait  with  patience,  and, 
please  God,  our  happiness  when  it  comes 
will  be  all  the  sweeter  because  of  the  dis- 
cipline which  went  before.' 

'  But,  John/  whispered  Christian  doubtfully, 
though  her  heart  was  filled  with  a  great  glad- 
ness, '  it  may  be  years.  I  would  not  seek  to 
keep  you  bound  to  me.  I  love ' — 

She  said  no  more,  for  his  hand  was  on  her 
lips. 

'  Hush,  Christian  !  In  the  sight  of  God  you 
are  my  wife,  and  whom  He  hath  joined  none 
may  put  asunder,'  he  said  solemnly.  '  Now, 
let  us  go  to  her' 

We  will  not  follow  them  into  the  chamber 
of  death  ;  with  such  solemn  and  sacred  scenes 
no  stranger  may  intermeddle.  When  they 
went  down-stairs  by  and  by,  Mr.  Dalrymple 
and  Hew  wondered  at  the  calm  and  beautiful 


SACRED  HOURS.  187 


radiance  on  Christian's  face.  The  minister 
stayed  a  little  while,  then  Hew  and  Christian 
walked  part  of  the  way  with  him  through 
the  fields.  When  the  brother  and  sister 
were  coming  back  together,  Hew  said  sud- 
denly,— 

'  What  a  splendid  fellow  Laidlaw  is,  Kirsten ! 
I  believe  he's  even  guid  enough  for  you.' 

Christian  laughed  softly,  and  shook  her  head. 

'  Far  ower  guid,  Hew ;  naebody  kens  what 
John  is  but  mysel','  she  answered,  and  there 
was  no  more  said  until  they  paused  for  a 
moment  on  the  doorstep  at  Lintlaw.  The 
moonlight  was  wondrous  clear  to-night;  far 
away  over  the  wide  sweep  of  country  they 
could  see  the  dim  outline  of  the  Firth,  and 
a  little  to  the  right  the  abrupt  peak  of  North 
Berwick  Law.  The  air  was  full  of  peace ; 
the  storm  had  spent  itself,  indeed,  and  left 
behind  a  great  ineffable  calm. 

'What  changes,  Hew!'  said  Christian. 
1  Uncle  Saunders  and  Aunt  Nannie  an' 
mother  a'  awa'.  D'ye  no*  feel  as  if  it  was 
a  hunder  year  sin'  we  gaed  thegither  to 
Newlandrigg  schule,  an'  chased  Miss  Ritchie's 
peacock  up  to  Scotstoun  ? ' 


188  CARLO  WRIE. 


1  Ay,  Kirsten,  it's  whiles  a  wunner  to  me 
hoo  I'm  to  put  in  the  rest  o'  my  days.  If 
it  wasna'  for  leavin*  ye  a',  I  wad  be  off 
frae  Carlo wrie,'  said  Hew,  with  a  ring  of 
pain  in  his  manly  voice. 

I  Hew/  said  Christian,  '  hae  ye  lost  faith  in 
Elsie?' 

'  Ay,  she's  to  be  mairret,  they  say,  in  the 
simmer  to  the  Laird  o'  Traquair,'  said  Hew 
bitterly.  'She  wasna  worth  an  honest  love. 
If  I  thocht  I  could  be  guilty  o'  sic  black 
ingratitude  as  hers,  I'd  fling  mysel'  in  Car- 
lowrie  mill-dam,  Kirsten.' 

*  Wheesht !  wheesht !  Hew,'  cried  Christian, 
in  distress.  '  There's  queer  whisperins  come 
to  me  at  times,  Hew,  an'  I  winna  believe  that 
Elsie's  false  to  us  a'  until  I  hae  better  proof. 
I'm  aye  prayin',  Hew,  that  God  will  unravel 
this  knotted  thread,  an'  I  believe  He  wull, 
because  it  was  one  o'  mother's  last  prayers.' 

I 1  doot   it'll   be   ane    o'    the    unanswered 
petitions,    Kirsten ;    an'    though    it    may    be 
for  oor  guid,    I   canna  see'd.     I   wush  Elsie 
Beatoun  had  never  set  fit  in  Lintlaw.     She's 
spoiled   my   life   for  me    at  its   ootset,'    said 
Hew,  with  increased  bitterness. 


SACRED  HOURS,  189 


Very  gently  Christian's  hand  stole  to  her 
brother's  tall  shoulder,  and  her  true  eyes 
looked  with  tender  sympathy  into  his  face. 

1  Hew,  I'm  to  learn  the  meanin'  o'  hope 
deferred  also,'  she  whispered ;  '  an'  I  ken 
hoo  hard  it  maun  be  for  you.  But  dinna 
lose  heart,  for  as  sure  as  I  stand  here, 
Elsie  '11  come  back,  an'  she'll  be  reigning  in 
Lintlaw  long  afore  I  be  at  the  Manse.  See 
if  my  words  dinna  come  true.' 

'  Ye're  a  very  witch  o'  Endor,  Kirsten,' 
said  Hew,  with  a  glimmer  of  the  old  pleasant 
smile  which  had  been  missing  from  his  face 
for  many  a  day.  '  Ye  mak'  a  man  believe 
ye  in  spite  o'  his  better  judgment.  I  dinna 
wunner  Laidlaw  couldna  help  hissel'.  Weel, 
gin  yer  words  come  true,  ye  shall  hae  the 
best  silk  goon  in  Dalkeith  for  the  waddin'.' 

There  was  a  touch  of  the  old  jesting  spirit 
in  Hew's  words  which  did  Christian's  heart 
good ;  and  so,  with  an  answering  smile  on 
her  lips,  she  opened  the  door  and  they  entered 
the  house.  Does  it  seem  strange  to  you  that 
there  could  even  be  the  semblance  of  a  jest 
upon  any  subject  in  their  minds  or  on  their 
lips  in  the  very  outset  of  their  motherlessness  ? 


1 90  CARLOWRIE. 


Nay,  for  though  the  bodily  presence  was  gone, 
the  spirit  of  the  mother  would  never  leave 
Lintlaw,  and  it  had  ever  been  an  enemy  to 
gloom  and  darkness, — a  lover  of  gentle,  harm- 
less mirth,  of  every  sunny  and  beautiful  thing 
on  earth. 

After  Hew  went  up  to  bed,  Christian 
lingered  a  little  beside  her  father,  thinking 
it  would  be  best  to  acquaint  him  at  once  with 
the  decision  to  which  she  and  Mr.  Laidlaw 
had  come. 

'  Ye'll  be  tired,  Kirsten?'  said  Lintlaw, 
looking  with  affectionate  eyes  at  his  daughter's 
face. 

She  had  her  mother's  eyes,  and  the  same 
unselfish,  happy  spirit  which,  for  thirty  years, 
had  made  the  sunshine  of  his  home,  looked 
out  upon  him  from  these  grey  depths. 

'  Not  very,  father,'  answered  Christian ; 
then  suddenly  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  *  I 
just  want  to  tell  you  to-night  that  I  am  not 
going  to  the  Manse  as  long  as  you  need  me. 
I  promised  mother,  and  John  knows,  and  will 
wait  for  me  until  Effie  can  fill  my  place,'  she 
added,  gathering  strength  as  she  went  on,  and 
speaking  in  quiet  and  composed  tones. 


SACRED  HOURS.  191 

Her  father  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  His 
firm  under  lip  trembled  slightly,  for  he  was 
deeply  moved. 

'  My  bairn,  I  couldna  accept  sic  a  sacrifice 
at  your  hands  an'  John's.  The  Manse  is  a' 
ready  for  ye,  an'  gang  when  ye  like,  ye  tak'  a 
father's  prayers  an'  blessin'  wi'  ye.' 

'  Oh,  but  father,  I  couldna  be  happy  at  the 
Manse  thinkin'  on  you  here  yersel',  an'  Effte 
fechtin'  wi',  maybe,  a  strange  servant's  help  to 
do  for  you  an'  the  laddies.  I'd  rather  bide ; 
it  wad  break  my  heart  to  see  ony thing  gaun 
wrang  in  Lintlaw,  an'  me  no'  here  to  help  it 
Father,  in  the  meantime  my  duty  an'  my 
happiness  lies  here,  the  other  '11  come  by 
and  by.' 

The  light  upon  Christian's  face  as  she 
spoke  was  beautiful  to  see.  Lintlaw  utterly 
broke  down,  and  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands. 

'  Kirsten,  ye  are  a  rebuke  to  me.  I  was 
but  sittin'  repinin'  afore  ye  came  in,  thinkin'  o' 
the  ruin  and  desolation  that  wad  fa'  upon 
Lintlaw  when  baith  yer  mither  and  you  were 
awa'.  Wha  am  I  that  I  should  hae  been 
blessed  wi'  sic  a  wife  and  sic  a  dochter  ? 


192  CARLO  WR1E. 


Bide,  my  lassie,  bide,  and  help  yer  faither  to  a 
better  knowledge  of  the  love  of  God.  Young 
as  ye  are,  ye  hae  mair  o'  His  grace  than  me.' 

Then,  for  the  first  time  since  she  was  a 
little  toddling  bairnie,  Christian  crept  into  her 
father's  arms,  and  laid  her  arms  about  his 
neck.  She  did  not  know  what  boundless 
good  that  simple  caress  did  to  her  father's 
sore  heart,  hungering  for  sympathy  and  love. 

So  at  the  very  beginning  God  blessed 
Christian  Dalrymple's  efforts  to  fill  her 
mother's  place,  and  surely  in  heaven  that 
mother  looked  down  upon  her  in  approving 
tenderness  and  joy. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

LYNDON  PRIORY. 

N  a  high  -  backed  old  -  fashioned 
tapestry-covered  chair,  in  the  library 
at  Lyndon  Priory,  sat  Elsie  Beatoun 
on  the  morning  of  Christmas  day.  It  was  a 
beautiful  morning,  clear  and  bright  and  brac- 
ing, with  just  sufficient  snow  on  the  ground  to 
make  the  landscape  beautiful  to  look  upon. 
The  carollers  had  been  early  at  the  windows 
of  the  Priory,  and  even  now  the  bells  of 
Lyndon  were  ringing  a  merry,  merry  peal,  for 
there  should  be  nothing  but  joy  and  goodwill 
in  hearts  to-day.  But  the  sweet  face  of  the 
maiden,  sitting  alone  by  the  crackling  wood 
fire,  was  sad  to  look  upon,  and  there  were  big 
tears  in  the  beautiful  pathetic  eyes.  And  yet 

what  sorrow  or  c?.re  could  touch  the  loved  and 

17 


194  CARLO  WRIE. 


cherished  grand-daughter  of  the  Lady  Anne  ? 
Had  she  not  horses  and  carriages,  men  ser- 
vants and  women  servants,  fine  raiment  and 
costly  jewels,  and  many  other  things  which 
are  commonly  the  delight  of  the  feminine 
mind  ?  Ay,  she  had  all  these,  but  they  were 
not  enough.  Her  heart  was  breaking  for  love; 
her  eyes  dim  with  unutterable  yearnings  for 
the  sight  of  Scottish  faces,  the  touch  of  Scot- 
tish hands,  for  one  glimpse  of  that  dear  home 
within  sight  of  the  green  braes  of  Crichtoun. 

The  house  was  very  still.  The  majority  of 
the  inmates  had  gone  to  attend  the  Christmas 
service  in  the  church  at  Lyndon,  only  the 
Lady  Anne  herself  had  not  yet  left  her  dress- 
ing-room. She  was  failing  every  day,  and 
those  who  were  skilled  in  such  matters  pre- 
dicted an  early  death.  But  though  the  body 
had  grown  feeble,  the  mind  was  powerful  still; 
not  a  jot  of  its  old  force  and  energy  was 
abated,  nay,  it  had  increased  rather,  for  in 
these  latter  days  the  Lady  Anne  brooked  not 
the  semblance  of  contradiction  to  her  will. 
When  the  solemn  clock  in  the  hall  chimed 
eleven,  the  library  door  opened,  and  the  Lady 
Anne  entered  the  room.  She  was  a  gaunt, 


L  YNDON  PRIOR  Y.  195 

pale,  hollow-eyed  spectre  now,  about  whom 
her  trailing  robes  hung  loosely ;  but  the  eye 
was  as  keen  as  of  yore,  and  the  mouth  had 
lost  none  of  its  firmness.  She  looked  deeply 
surprised  to  see  the  slender  figure  buried  in 
the  armchair  on  the  hearth. 

1  You  here,  Elsie  ! '  she  exclaimed.  '  Why 
are  you  not  at  church  with  the  others  ? ' 

'  I  did  not  care  to  go  this  morning,  grand- 
mother,' replied  Elsie,  and  rose  to  offer  the  old 
lady  her  chair.  '  Are  you  well  to-day,  you  look 
so  pale  and  worn,  I  fear  you  have  not  slept  ? ' 

'  No,  I  have  not,'  said  the  Lady  Anne, 
sinking  wearily  into  the  chair.  '  Sleeplessness 
is  one  of  the  many  disagreeable  attributes  of 
age.  And  why  are  you  moping  alone  here  ? 
You  have  been  crying,  Elsie;  I  see  tears  on 
your  eyelashes.' 

'  Yes,  grandmother/  said  Elsie  simply,  and, 
moving  over  to  the  low  window,  stood  looking 
out  upon  the  whitened  landscape,  across  which 
came  pealing  the  chime  of  Lyndon  bells. 

'  Has  Deborah  Conroy  gone  to  church, 
Elsie  ? '  asked  the  Lady  Anne  harshly. 

'  Yes,  grandmother ;  I  said  I  would  do  any- 
thing you  might  require.  It  is  a  great  plea- 


196  CARLO  WRIE. 


sure  to  Deborah  to  go  to  church.  You  will 
not  be  angry  with  her,  grandmother  ?  She 
has  not  many  pleasures  in  life.' 

Elsie  meant  no  disrespect  or  slur  upon  her 
grandmother,  she  only  spoke  the  simple  truth. 
Deborah  Conroy  had  indeed  reason  to  bless 
the  day  that  Elsie  came  to  Lyndon  Priory,  for 
the  young  girl,  fearless  in  her  innocence  and 
tender  sympathy,  had  stood  between  her  and 
her  kinswoman's  wrath  times  without  number. 
As  a  natural  result,  Deborah  Conroy  wor- 
shipped the  very  ground  upon  which  Elsie  trod. 

'  Does  Deborah  Conroy  complain  to  you, 
Elsie  ?  She  has  little  need.  I  took  her  from 
beggary,  and  clothed  and  fed  her.  She  sits  at 
my  table  and  eats  of  my  bread.  What  more 
does  the  creature  require  ?' 

'  How  can  you  speak  so,  grandmother  ? ' 
asked  Elsie,  her  delicate  face  flushing  with 
indignant  shame.  '  Deborah  works  hard,  and 
owes  you  nothing.  As  for  complaining,  such 
a  thing  is  not  in  her  nature,  but  I  should  not 
wonder  if  she  did.' 

'  You  are  very  bold  in  your  speech,  Elsie. 
You  are  not  afraid  to  presume  on  my  love  for 
you,  said  the  old  woman  grimly,  yet  inwardly 


L  YND  ON  PRIOR  Y.  197 


not  displeased,  for  she  loved  to  see  a  fearless 
spirit  displayed  in  man  or  woman,  and  for 
such  as  poor  Deborah  Conroy  she  had  the 
utmost  contempt. 

'  Grandmother,  when  are  we  going  to  Scot- 
land ? '  was  Elsie's  sudden  and  unexpected 
question. 

'  I  have  not  yet  decided,'  replied  the  Lady 
Anne.  '  Are  you  discontented  already  with 
my  English  home  ?  I  am  sure  it  is  fair  enough 
to  satisfy  any  heart.' 

'  Yes ;  but,  grandmother,  I  love  Scotland 
best,'  answered  Elsie,  her  soft  eyes  strangely 
dim.  '  You  promised  me  that  we  would  go 
at  Christmas  time,  and  that  I  should  see  them 
all  at  Lintlaw.' 

'  Child !  child !  are  you  fretting  after  these 
peasant  folks  yet  ? '  queried  the  old  woman, 
in  tones  of  querulous  displeasure.  '  I  had 
thought  that  so  much  change  of  scene  and 
the  difference  in  your  life  and  prospects  would 
have  cured  you  of  that.  It  is  not  seemly  for 
a  Traquair  to  be  so  bound  up  in  those  so  far 
beneath  her.' 

Elsie's  bosom  heaved,  her  soft  eyes  now 
flashed  indignant  fire. 


198  CARLO  WRIE. 


'  You  do  not  know  me  nor  them,  grand- 
mother,' she  said,  in  clear,  unfaltering  tones. 
'No  punishment  would  be  too  great  for  me 
were  I  to  forget  what  they  did  for  me,  how 
they  clothed  and  fed  and  cherished  me,  when 
I  was  a  friendless  orphan  on  the  face  of  the 
earth.  And  among  all  the  people  I  have  met,  I 
have  seen  none  to  compare  with  those  of  whom 
you  so  contemptuously  speak  as  peasant  folk.' 

It  was  curious  to  see  the  varying  expressions 
which  crossed  the  face  of  the  Lady  Anne 
while  her  grand-daughter  was  speaking.  She 
was  very  angry,  but  she  hid  it  well. 

'  You  flatter  me,  and  those  of  my  friends 
to  whom  you  have  been  introduced,'  she  said 
slowly.  '  Tell  me,  then,  do  Howard  Traquair 
and  his  sister  rank  as  low  in  your  estimation  ? ' 

A  glimmering  of  a  smile  dawned  upon 
Elsie's  face. 

'  Oh  no,  grandmother,  I  love  both  my 
cousin  Howard  and  Marjorie ;  I  love  all 
beneath  the  roof-tree  of  the  Priory,'  she  said. 
1  But  you  cannot  wonder  that  my  heart  clings  to 
my  first  friends  with  a  deep  and  yearning  love.' 

1  Come  here,  Elsie.' 

The   commanding   tones    Elsie   obeyed   at 


L  YND  ON  PRIOR  Y.  1 99 


once,  and,  kneeling  by  her  grandmother's 
chair,  she  looked  up  questioningly  into  her 
face.  Oh,  what  childlike  purity  and  truth, 
what  innocent  loveliness  was  on  her  face  as 
she  did  so  !  In  her  inmost  heart  the  proud  old 
woman  was  deeply  moved,  and  she  laid  one 
slender  hand  on  the  sunny  head. 

'  You  love  your  cousins  Howard  and 
Marjorie  ?'  she  repeated  questioningly. 

'  Oh  yes,  grandmother.  I  could  not  live 
without  Marjorie,  she  is  such  a  comfort  to  me ; 
and  Howard  is  a  dear,  good  boy,  though  he 
teases  me  so  dreadfully,'  replied  Elsie,  without 
the  least  hesitation. 

'You  know  that  Howard  is  Laird  of 
Traquair  and  Glenshee  ? '  she  said  slowly. 
'  That  the  summer  will  see  him  settled  upon 
his  own  fair  domain,  which  has  not  its  equal 
in  broad  Scotland  ?  ' 

'Yes,  I  know,'  nodded  Elsie,  'and  Marjorie 
will  go  with  him  until  one  or  other  marry.' 

'  Howard's  wife  will  have  a  great  position, 
Elsie,'  said  the  Lady  Anne. 

'  Yes ;  and  oh,  I  hope  he  will  get  one 
worthy  of  him,  grandmother,'  exchimed 
Elsie.  'He  is  so  good  and  noble  and  kind, 


200  CARLO  WRIE. 


he  deserves  the  best  woman  in  the  world,  I 
am  quite  sure.' 

'  Elsie,  there  is  but  one  woman  in  all  the 
world  for  Howard,  and  you  are  the  one,'  said 
the  Lady  Anne  bluntly. 

Elsie  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  with 
dumbfoundered  eyes,  then  a  deep  and  painful 
flush  overspread  her  fair  face,  and  she  hid  it 
upon  the  arm  of  her  grandmother's  chair. 

'  Since  ever  you  were /providentially  restored 
to  me,  my  child/  began  the  Lady  Anne,  with 
something  of  gentleness  in  her  tone,  '  it  has 
become  the  dream  of  my  life  to  see  you 
united  to  Howard  Traquair.  Such  a  union 
would  blot  out  all  the  bitter  memories  of 
the  past,  and  would  atone  for  what  I  have 
suffered  these  many  years.  It  is  a  position 
any  young  girl  might  covet,  and  Howard 
Traquair  is  one  whom  any  woman  might  love. 
Elsie,  Elsie,  be  good  to  him  and  me.  I  am 
an  unhappy  woman,  drawing  very  near  the 
end  of  what  has  been  a  painful  life.  Give  me 
a  gleam  of  sunshine  before  the  end.  Let  me 
see  the  restoration  of  the  house  of  Traquair. 
Let  me  die  knowing  that  its  honour  is  safe  in 
your  hands.  I  am  asking  no  sacrifice  at  your 


L  YNDON  PRIOR  Y. 


hands,  my  child  ;  nay,  rather,  I  am  only  asking 
you  to  make  yourself  as  well  as  others  happy.' 

A  convulsive  shiver  ran  through  Elsie's 
frame,  but  she  made  no  reply,  and  a  long 
silence  ensued.  Nothing  was  to  be  heard  in 
the  quiet  room  but  the  ticking  of  the  clock, 
and  from  afar  the  wild,  sweet  chime  of  Lyndon 
bells.  At  last,  with  gentle  force  the  Lady 
Anne  lifted  the  fair  head  from  its  resting- 
place,  and  looked  into  Elsie's  face.  How  pale 
it  had  grown !  how  deep  and  pathetic  the 
shadow  dwelling  in  the  big  dark  eyes ! 

'  Child !  child !  what  is  the  meaning  of  this 
sorrow  ?  '  she  asked  chidingly.  '  What  is  there 
in  the  thought  of  a  marriage  with  Howard 
Traquair  to  bring  such  a  shadow  to  your  lips?' 

Then  Elsie  stood  up,  and,  folding  her  hands 
before  her,  looked  at  her  grandmother  with  a 
mingling  of  timidity  and  resolution  on  her  face. 

4  It  is  time  now  to  tell  you,  grandmother, 
what  I  have  concealed  from  you  during  the 
six  months  I  have  been  under  your  roof-tree,' 
she  said  quietly,  though  her  lips  trembled. 
1 1  know  you  will  be  very  angry  with  me,  for 
a  time  at  least,  because  your  disappointment 
will  be  great.  Although  I  do  not  love 


202  CARLOWR1E. 


Howard  Traquair  as  a  woman  must  love  the 
man  to  whom  she  gives  herself,  there  is 
another  reason  which  would  prevent  me  enter- 
taining the  idea  of  marrying  him  for  a  moment. 
I — I  am  not  free,  grandmother.  I  left  Lint- 
law  in  the  spring  as  the  promised  wife  of  Hew 
Dalrymple,  and  though  he  has  never  answered 
my  letters,  I  will  be  true  to  him.  I — I  could 
not  wed  another,  grandmother,  while  my  heart 
is  so  wholly  his.' 

The  Lady  Anne  rose,  and  the  passion  on 
her  face  was  awful  to  see.  Elsie  looked  upon 
her  in  affright.  She  spoke  no  word,  but 
began  to  move  slowly  towards  the  door. 
Then  Elsie  sprang  to  her  side. 

'  Grandmother,  do  not  look  at  me  with  these 
eyes,'  she  cried  almost  wildly.  '  Be  kind,  be 
merciful  to  me.  If  you  can  never  forgive  me, 
give  me  money  to  take  me  away  from  Lyndon. 
Let  me  go  back  to  Scotland  to  those  who 
have  loved  and  cared  for  me  longest  and 
best.  I  am  not  ungrateful,  grandmother,  and 
I  will  always  love  you ;  but  oh,  my  heart  is 
breaking  for  home  ! ' 

The  Lady  Anne  cast  off  the  pleading  hand.. 
Her  white  lips  essayed  to  utter  the  words  upon 


L  YNDON  PRIOR  Y.  203 


them,  but  failed.  But  the  eyes  seemed  to  slay 
Elsie  where  she  stood.  She  was  glad  to  press 
her  hands  to  her  own  to  shut  out  that  look. 

'  Wicked,  ungrateful  girl ! '  came  at  length 
passionately  from  the  Lady  Anne's  lips. 
'  Child  of  a  perverse  mother,  would  to  God  I 
had  left  you  to  your  low-born  friends  and  your 
peasant  lover ! ' 

Then  she  tottered  from  the  room,  and 
up-stairs  to  her  own,  to  brood  anew  over  the 
downfall  of  the  hopes  which  had  blossomed 
anew  over  Elsie.  Ay,  that  was  a  bitter,  bitter 
hour  indeed  for  Anne  Lyndon  Traquair. 

Elsie  stood  for  a  few  minutes  after  her 
grandmother  left  her,  then  turning,  threw 
herself  upon  a  couch,  and  buried  her  face  in 
the  pillow.  The  same  bitter  pain  her  mother 
had  so  often  endured  was  hers  to-day.  She 
lay  there  stunned,  unable  to  weep,  scarcely  to 
think,  until  the  sound  of  merry  voices  in  the 
hall  proclaimed  the  return  of  the  church- 
goers. Then  Elsie  rose,  but  before  she  could 
escape,  the  door  opened,  and  Howard  entered 
the  room.  A  smile  was  on  his  face,  bantering 
words  on  his  lips,  but  at  sight  of  his  cousin's 
face  he  stopped  short,  looking  at  her  blankly. 


204  CARLOWRIE. 


1  Why,  Elsie,  what  is  it  ?  Who  has  been 
annoying  or  vexing  you  ? '  he  asked,  with  real 
concern  in  his  pleasant  voice. 

'  Nobody.  I  have  vexed  grandmother. 
Don't  ask  me  any  questions,  please,  Howard,' 
said  Elsie  pitifully ;  then,  seeing  in  his  face 
confirmation  of  her  grandmother's  words,  her 
face  flushed  once  more. 

'  If  you  had  said  Aunt  Anne  had  vexed 
you,  I  would  believe  it  more  readily,'  he  said 
quickly.  '  Can't  I  help  you,  Elsie  ?  You 
know  there  is  nothing  on  earth  gives  me 
greater  pleasure  than  to  serve  you.' 

'  No,  thank  you,  dear  Howard.  I  am  not 
ungrateful,  but  nobody  except  God  can  help 
me  in  this  trouble.  Is  Marjorie  up-stairs  ? 
I — I  think  I  will  go  to  her.' 

So  saying,  Elsie  stole  softly  from  the  room, 
leaving  Howard  both  perplexed  and  sorely 
troubled.  With  weak  and  weary  feet,  Elsie 
climbed  the  wide  staircase,  and  entered  the 
dressing-room  she  shared  with  Marjorie. 
Howard  Traquair's  sister  was  the  counter- 
part of  himself,  gay,  light-hearted,  happy 
souled,  full  of  lively  humour  and  true  loving- 
kindness,  a  sunbeam  of  peace  and  beauty 


L  YNDON  PRIOR  Y.  205 

wherever  she  went.  She  had  accepted  the 
great  change  in  her  fortunes  with  the  same 
serene  contentment  with  which  she  had  borne 
poverty.  Riches  cannot  spoil  such  whole- 
some natures  as  these  which  have  been  trained 
and  purified  in  the  fine  school  of  hardship 
and  self-denial.  She  was  standing  at  the 
mirror  unfastening  her  fur  cloak,  but  at  Elsie's 
entrance  turned  a  rosy  and  winsome  face  all 
smiles  to  greet  her. 

'Why,  Elsie,  dear,  what  has  happened  to 
you  ?  Who  has  been  annoying  my  pet  ? '  she 
cried,  with  the  impulsive  and  caressing  ways 
peculiar  to  her.  Her  voice  was  very  musical, 
and  had  an  English  accent  which  contrasted 
oddly  with  Elsie's  Scottish  tongue. 

1  Oh,  Marjorie,  Marjorie,  my  heart  is  very 
sore!'  cried  Elsie,  and  in  a  moment  her 
head  was  pillowed  on  Marjorie's  faithful 
breast.  '  Just  let  me  lie  here  where  I  feel  so 
safe.  Oh,  dear  Marjorie,  I  have  nobody  now 
on  earth  but  you  and  Howard,  for  grand- 
mother will  never  forgive  me.' 

Then  a  flood  of  tears  came  to  relieve  the 
overcharged  heart 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

MISS  RITCHIE'S  COUSIN  BETSY. 


MMEDIATELY 


her 


upon    ner    return 

from  church,  Deborah  Conroy  was 
summoned  to  the  presence  of  the 
Lady  Anne.  She  found  her  sitting  by  her 
dressing-room  fire,  her  face  deadly  pale,  and 
wearing  an  expression  which  Deborah  knew 
well  enough  to  dread.  Her  kinswoman  was 
in  one  of  her  worst  moods  to-day. 

'  I — I  hope  you  were  not  vexed  because  I 
went  to  church,  Anne  ? '  she  said  falteringly. 
1  Elsie  said  she  would  see  whether  you  wanted 
anything  while  I  was  away.' 

'  I  cannot  ask  Elsie  to  perform  your  duties, 
Deborah  Conroy,'  said  her  ladyship  harshly. 
'  But  I  will  let  it  pass.  I  shall  not  be  able 
to  come  down-stairs  to-day,  I  am  so  feeble 


MISS  RITCHIE'S  COUSIN  BETSY.  207 

and  far  spent.  The  vicar  and  his  wife  dine 
with  us  to-day,  but  my  grand-daughter  will 
convey  my  apologies  to  them,  and  you  will  see 
that  everything  is  provided  for  their  comfort.' 

1  Yes,  Anne,  I  ordered  the  dinner  before  I 
went  away,  and  I  am  sure  it  will  be  very  nice,' 
murmured  Deborah,  nervously  working  with 
the  fringes  of  her  shawl. 

It  was  pitiful  to  see  the  shrinking  of  the 
poor  creature  in  the  presence  of  her  austere 
relative,  of  whom  she  stood  in  awe  amounting 
to  fear. 

'  You  will  bring  me  some  writing  materials 
up  here.  I  have  some  correspondence  to 
attend  to ;  and  when  the  letter-bag  is  ready 
for  despatch  to  Lyndon  you  will  bring  it  up 
here  to  me,  and  I  will  put  in  my  letters  and 
lock  it  myself.' 

'  Very  well,  Anne/  said  Deborah  Conroy, 
too  unsuspicious  to  think  there  was  anything 
peculiar  in  such  a  request. 

'  That  is  all ;  but  stay,  go  and  see  where 
Elsie  is,  and  come  and  tell  me ; '  and  Deborah, 
glad  to  escape,  hastened  to  obey. 

On  her  way  down-stairs  she  met  Marjorie, 
and  paused  to  ask  where  Elsie  was. 


ao8  CARLOWRIE. 


'She  is  lying  down,  Deborah.  She  has  a 
bad  headache,  and  I  promised  that  no  one 
should  disturb  her.  If  Aunt  Anne  is  asking 
for  her,  tell  her  she  has  fallen  asleep.' 

That  message  Deborah  at  once  carried  to 
the  Lady  Anne,  and  then,  having  brought 
the  writing  materials,  was  dismissed  from  her 
presence. 

At  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  the  letter- 
bag  was  laid  upon  the  hall  table,  ready  for  the 
groom  to  take  to  the  post-office  at  Lyndon. 

While  Elsie  and  Marjorie  were  having  a 
cup  of  tea  together  in  their  dressing-room, 
Deborah  Conroy,  unobserved,  removed  the 
bag  and  carried  it  up  to  the  Lady  Anne. 
She  had  finished  writing  her  letters,  and 
requested  Deborah  to  send  up  tea  for  her 
in  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  When  she  was 
again  left  alone  the  Lady  Anne  unlocked 
the  bag  and  lifted  out  the  letters,  of  which 
there  was  a  goodly  number,  for  the  servants 
were  allowed  to  send  their  letters  in  the 
Priory  bag,  and  it  being  Christmas,  were 
exchanging  greetings  with  their  friends. 
Very  deliberately  the  Lady  Anne  lifted 
them  out  one  by  one  There  were  several 


MISS  RITCHIE'S  COUSIN  BETSY.  209 

in  Howard's  bold,  beautiful  handwriting,  and 
one  in  Marjorie's  flowing  hand,  addressed 
to  a  friend  in  London.  At  length  a  gleam 
of  satisfaction  crossed  the  face  of  the  Lady 
Anne,  for  she  had  found  the  one  she  sought, 
an  envelope  addressed  in  Elsie's  handwriting, 
to  Mrs.  Dalrymple,  Lintlaw,  Gorebridge, 
Scotland.  Without  hesitation  the  Lady 
Anne  broke  the  seal,  tossed  the  envelope 
in  the  fire,  and,  smoothing  out  the  neatly- 
folded  sheet,  read  what  was  written  thereon. 
Dark,  dark  grew  her  brow  as  she  perused  the 
passionate  epistle,  every  line  of  which  breathed 
a  yearning  and  unaltered  love.  It  prayed  for 
but  a  line  in  return,  to  ease  the  agony  of  sus- 
pense and  pain  which  she  was  suffering.  It 
begged  them  not  to  forget  her  yet  awhile; 
and  closed  with  an  assurance  that,  please 
God,  she  would  come  again  some  day  soon 
to  make  her  home  with  them  for  all  time ; 
to  be  the  Elsie  of  old,  loved  and  cared  for 
far  beyond  what  she  deserved.  There  were 
many  inquiries  about  every  separate  member 
of  the  family,  and  only  one  brief  allusion  to 
Hew.  'Tell  Hew,  dear  Aunt  Erne,'  ran  the 
trembling  words,  and  just  then  a  big  tear-drop 

18 


210  CARLOWR1E. 


had  fallen  and  made  a  blot  upon  the  page, 
'  that  even  in  the  midst  of  a  silence  which 
my  aching  heart  cannot  understand,  I  am 
and  will  be  true  to  him  still.' 

Even  in  her  anger  one  thing  struck  the 
Lady  Anne,  and  awakened  in  her  heart  some- 
thing akin  to  remorse.  Although  her  name 
was  several  times  mentioned,  it  was  always 
in  terms  of  gratitude  and  love ;  there  was 
not  even  the  most  distant  allusion  to  her 
harsher  moods,  or  to  what  had  passed  that 
very  morning.  She  was  repaying  that  unself- 
ishness with  a  treachery  black  and  bitter ; 
and  though  she  had  the  child's  welfare  as  well 
as  her  own  ambition  at  heart,  she  had  for- 
gotten those  warning  words  of  Holy  Writ — 
'  Ye  may  not  do  evil  that  good  may  come.' 

Having  read  and  re-read  the  letter,  she 
threw  it  into  the  dancing  flames  and  watched 
it  disappear;  then  she  turned  to  replace  the 
letters  in  the  bag,  when  her  eye  was  riveted 
by  another  address,  evidently  written  by  one 
of  the  servants  : — 

4  Miss  Ritchie, 

'  Scotstoun,  Gorebridge, 
4  Scotland.' 


MISS  RITCHIE'S  COUSIN  BETSY. 


Reading  that,  a  sudden  inspiration  flashed 
across  the  mind  of  the  Lady  Anne,  and  she 
foresaw  an  easy  and  speedy  ending  to  the 
difficulties  which  beset  her,  and  which,  once 
removed,  would  surely  secure  her  the  desire 
of  her  heart. 

Punctually  at  the  hour,  Deborah  Conroy 
herself  brought  up  the  tea  tray,  and  found 
her  kinswoman  leaning  back  in  her  chair, 
apparently  asleep.  The  letter-bag,  safely 
locked,  lay  on  the  table  beside  her. 

'  Is  that  you,  Deborah  ? '  asked  she  lan- 
guidly. '  Take  down  the  letter-bag  and 
send  Barrett  off  with  it  at  once.  My  letters 
are  in.  How  does  the  dinner  progress  ?  Is 
Elizabeth  Ritchie  very  busy  ? ' 

1  Yes,  Anne ;  but  I  believe  she  will  be 
nearly  through  now,'  said  Deborah,  some- 
what astonished  at  the  question,  for  it  was 
very  seldom  that  the  Lady  Anne  expressed 
much  interest  in  household  matters,  though 
she  was  quick  enough  to  blame  when  any 
hitch  occurred. 

1  Elizabeth  is  a  good  cook  and  a  faithful 
servant,  is  she  not,  Deborah  ?  How  long 
has  she  been  with  us  now  ? ' 


CARLOWR1E. 


*  Seven  years,  Anne.  Yes,  she  is  a  good 
servant,  but  I  do  not  like  her.  She  is  so 
quiet  and  cunning,'  said  Deborah  simply. 

'  You  judge  harshly,  Deborah,'  said  the 
Lady  Anne  severely.  '  She  is  a  Scotch- 
woman, remember,  and  that  reticence  and 
stillness  which  you  call  cunning  is  only  a 
mark  of  her  nationality.  I  was  thinking  to 
make  each  of  the  servants  a  little  Christmas 
gift,  Deborah,  because  since  last  Christmas 
so  many  happy  changes  have  befallen  me.  I 
would  seek  to  mark  in  some  way  my  grati- 
tude for  the  restoration  both  of  my  beloved 
grandchild,  and  of  my  nephew  the  Laird  of 
Traquair.  I  will  begin  under  my  own  roof- 
tree.  You  shall  have  twenty  pounds,  De- 
borah, and  that  amethyst  brooch  of  mine 
for  which  you  have  such  an  admiration. 
Next  week,  if  my  health  is  a  little  improved, 
we  will  make  arrangements  for  giving  the 
poor  people  of  Lyndon  and  Amhurst  a  sub- 
stantial dinner  and  tea ;  and  we  will  have 
a  party  here  on  New  Year's  Eve.  Young 
people  must  have  some  enjoyment,  Deborah. 
The  quiet  life  which  satisfied  two  old  women 
will  not  do  for  the  new  members  of  our  family. 


MISS  RITCHIE'S  COUSIN  BETSY.  213 

Deborah  Conroy  looked  upon  her  kins- 
woman in  surprise,  mingled  with  a  little 
anxious  fear.  She  could  scarcely  believe 
that  in  a  sane  moment  the  Lady  Anne 
would  utter  such  sentiments  as  these.  The 
ghost  of  a  smile  touched  for  a  moment  the 
pale  lips  of  the  Lady  Anne. 

'  Why  do  you  look  at  me  so  ?  I  am  in 
earnest,  Deborah,'  she  said.  '  Now,  leave  me, 
and  tell  Elizabeth  Ritchie  that  when  she  is 
at  liberty  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  her  here  for 
a  few  minutes.' 

'  Very  well,  Anne/  replied  Deborah  Conroy, 
and  retired  to  ponder  in  solitude  over  this 
strange  new  whim  of  the  Lady  Anne.  In 
about  half  an  hour,  Elizabeth,  or  Betsy 
Ritchie,  as  she  was  commonly  called,  came  to 
her  mistress's  chamber  door,  and  was  at  once 
requested  to  come  in. 

She  was  a  tall,  pale,  dark-browed  woman, 
with  strongly-marked  features  and  piercing 
black  eyes,  which,  with  their  furtive  gleam 
and  the  peculiar  droop  of  the  lids,  gave 
evidence  that  there  was  some  truth  in 
Deborah  Conroy's  prejudice  against  her. 
She  was  a  daughter  of  Adam  Ritchie  of 


214  CARLOWRIE. 


Windymains,  who  had  been  a  son  of  one 
of  the  Faas  of  Yetholm,  so  there  was  gipsy 
blood  in  Betsy's  veins.  She  was  not  well 
liked  by  her  neighbour  servants,  who  were 
mostly  flighty  English  girls,  as  different  from 
her  as  could  well  be  imagined.  She  kept 
herself  to  herself,  as  the  saying  goes,  and 
was  proud  in  her  consciousness  of  being  an 
invaluable  servant,  who  could  command  her 
labour's  worth  anywhere. 

When  she  entered  the  room  the  Lady 
Anne  looked  at  her  keenly,  as  if  to  judge 
whether  she  could  trust  her.  Then  she 
motioned  her  to  a  chair. 

'  Sit  down,  Elizabeth.  Miss  Conroy  would 
tell  you,  probably,  why  I  sent  for  you  ? ' 

'  No,  my  lady,'  said  Betsy,  who,  when 
speaking  to  her  mistress,  laid  aside  her  own 
tongue.  '  I  hope  you  have  no  fault  to  find 
with  me  ? ' 

There  was  an  aggressive  note  in  Betsy's 
voice  which  told  that  she  was  prepared  to 
resent  any  rebuke. 

'  Oh  no,  Elizabeth ;  you  are,  and  have 
ever  been,  a  faithful  friend  and  servant  to  me 
since  you  came  to  Lyndon.  I  would  seek 


MISS  RITCHIE'S  COUSIN  BETSY.  215 

now  to  mark  my  appreciation  of  these  ser- 
vices by  a  small  gift,'  said  the  Lady  Anne, 
and,  unlocking  a  small  desk  on  the  table  beside 
her,  took  from  thence  five  golden  sovereigns, 
and  counted  them  into  Betsy's  palm.  A  slight 
flush  of  surprise  and  pleasure  tinged  for  a 
moment  the  woman's  pale  cheek,  for  she  had 
all  a  gipsy's  greed  of  gold ;  yet,  unlike  these 
wandering  people,  she  hoarded  up  every 
penny,  scarcely  expending  what  was  necessary 
on  clothing  for  herself. 

'  Thank  you,  my  lady,'  she  said,  dropping  a 
profound  courtesy,  and  slipping  the  sovereigns 
into  her  pocket. 

'  How  long  is  it  since  you  were  in  Scotland, 
Elizabeth  ? ' 

'  It  is  eleven  years,  my  lady,  since  I  came  to 
London  as  cook  in  the  family  of  Mrs.  Graham 
of  Meggatlee.  I  left  them  there,  and  took 
service  with  the  Bishop  of  Raylands,  whom  I 
left  seven  years  come  Whitsuntide  to  come 
here,'  replied  Elizabeth  quietly. 

1  And  you  have  never  been  home  to  your 
own  people  since  then  ? ' 

4  Never,  my  lady.  My  old  home  is  broken 
up.  My  father  and  mother  died  in  Windy- 


216  CARLOWRIE. 


mains,  and  my  brother  Adam  has  the  farm 
now.  He's  married  now,  but  I  keep  up  no 
correspondence  with  him  or  his  wife ;  we 
never  could  agree,'  said  Betsy,  unconsciously 
beguiled  to  tell  more  of  her  history  than  had 
passed  her  lips  for  many  years. 

1  It  seems  a  strange  and  lonely  kind  of 
thing  for  you  to  be  cut  off  from  all  your 
kindred,  Elizabeth,'  said  the  Lady  Anne. 
'  You  have  been  a  good  and  faithful  servant 
to  me.  I  would  not  grudge  you  a  holiday,  if 
you  wish  it,  to  revisit  Scotland.' 

Very  great  was  the  surprise  on  the  face  of 
Elizabeth  Ritchie  at  that  moment. 

'  You  are  very  kind,  my  lady.  But  I  have 
no  great  desire  to  go  back  to  Scotland.  The 
only  person  I  would  like  to  see  there  would 
be  my  cousin  Ailie  Ritchie  at  Scotstoun.' 

'  Scotstoun!     Where  is  that,  Elizabeth  ?' 

'  It  is  a  farm  place  near  the  village  of  Gore- 
bridge,  my  lady,  quite  near  to  Lintlaw,  where 
Miss  Elsie  lived  so  long.' 

'  Ah,  then,  did  you  know  the  Dalrymples 
of  Lintlaw  ? ' 

'  Yes,  my  lady ;  but  they  were  'proud  people, 
with  whom  I  never  could  get  on.  But 


MISS  RITCHIE'S  COUSIN  BETSY.  217 

my   cousin    Ailie    made    a   great   work   with 

them.' 

'  Do  you  ever  hear  from  this  cousin  of  yours, 

Elizabeth  ?'  queried  the  Lady  Anne. 

It  was  a  great  effort  for  her  to  stoop  thus  to 
question  a  dependent,  but  great  events  might 
hang  on  the  issue  of  this  interview. 

'  Sometimes,  my  lady,'  was  all  Elizabeth  re- 
plied, for  she  would  not  volunteer  much  infor- 
mation unasked. 

'  In  her  letters  to  you  does  she  ever  make 
any  allusion  to  my  grand-daughter  or  the 
people  of  Lintlaw  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  my  lady ;  Ailie  often  speaks  of  them.' 

'  Probably  she  has  alluded  to  some  love 
affair  which  at  one  time  existed  between  my 
grand-daughter  and  the  son  of  the  house  ? ' 

'  Yes,  my  lady.  In  her  last  letter  to  me, 
written  about  four  months  ago,  my  lady,  she 
said  that  Hew  Dalrymple  was  not  the  same 
man  since  Miss  Elsie  went  away,  and  that  she 
was  sore  missed  at  Lintlaw.' 

The  Lady  Anne  remained  silent  for  a  brief 
moment,  shading  her  face  with  her  hand. 
Then  suddenly  she  raised  her  head  and  looked 
the  woman  full  in  the  face. 

19 


218  CARLOWRIE. 


1  Elizabeth,  can  I  trust  you  as  a  friend  to  me 
and  the  house  of  Traquair  ?  I  am  in  a  sore  diffi- 
culty, out  of  which  you  can  help  me  if  you  will.' 

'  I  shall  be  honoured  by  your  ladyship's 
confidence.  You  know  I  am  not  one  of  these 
babbling  fools  who  can  keep  nothing.  I  can  be 
as  secret  as  the  grave,'  replied  Betsy  quietly 
but  respectfully. 

1  Then,  Elizabeth,  listen  to  me,'  said  the 
Lady  Anne,  leaning  forward  in  her  eagerness. 
'  You  can  see — any  one  can  see — the  devotion 
of  the  Laird  of  Traquair  to  my  grand-daughter. 
Such  an  alliance  would  bring  happiness  to  all 
concerned,  and  would  make  the  building  up 
of  the  house  of  Traquair.  My  grand-daughter 
returns  the  love  of  the  Laird,  but  in  the 
meantime  she  foolishly  considers  herself 
bound  to  this  young  farmer  in  Scotland. 
This  foolish  idea  is  the  only  barrier  to  her 
happiness,  and  is  making  the  child  miserable. 
If  by  any  means  she  could  hear  that  this 
Dalrymple  was  about  to  marry  or  was  married 
to  another,  her  scruples  would  vanish.  He 
has  evidently  forgotten  her,  seeing  he  has  not 
written  to  her  once  since  she  came  to  me. 
You  follow  me,  Elizabeth  ?' 


MISS  RITCHIE'S  COUSIN  BETSY.  219 

'  Yes,  my  lady,'  replied  Betsy  Ritchie,  with 
a  peculiar  droop  of  the  eyelids.  '  I  under- 
stand you  quite  well.' 

'  If  you  could  go  to  Scotland  and  bring 
back  word  to  me  of  Hew  Dalrymple's  mar- 
riage, I  could  break  it  to  her,  referring  her  to 
you  for  confirmation.  It  would  be  a  harmless 
deception,  Elizabeth,  seeing  the  young  man 
has  already  proved  faithless.' 

'Would  a  letter  purporting  to  come  from 
my  cousin  at  Scotstoun  not  do  as  well, 
my  lady  ? '  said  Betsy  meaningly.  '  I  have 
no  desire  to  go  to  Scotland  at  the  present 
time.' 

1  Yes,  Elizabeth,  it  will  do  quite  as  well. 
You  understand,  I  see,  and  are  willing  to  aid 
me  in  securing  the  happiness  of  those  so  dear 
to  me,'  said  the  Lady  Anne,  with  effusion.  '  In 
consideration  of  your  help,  I  shall  give  you 
fifty  pounds  upon  New  Year's  day,  Elizabeth, 
and  fifty  more  upon  the  marriage  of  the  Laird 
and  my  grand- daughter.  You  will  not  find  a 
Traquair  an  ungrateful  recipient  of  kindness, 
Elizabeth.' 

'  Thank  you,  my  lady ;  I  am  sure  of  that/ 
said  Betsy  Ritchie,  in  well  -  pleased  tones. 


220  CARLOWR1E. 


1  May  I  go  now,  my  lady  ?  I  fear  the  dinner 
requires  my  attention.' 

The  Lady  Anne  bowed,  and  her  servant 
withdrew.  She  was  well  satisfied  with  the 
result  of  the  interview,  and  congratulated 
herself  upon  having  so  deceived  Elizabeth 
Ritchie  as  to  make  her  request  seem  a  small 
and  trifling  thing.  But,  clever  though  she  was, 
the  Lady  Anne  was  no  match  for  Adam 
Ritchie's  daughter,  in  whose  veins  ran  the 
cunning  blood  of  the  Faas. 

Late  in  the  evening,  just  before  the  vicar 
and  his  wife  arrived  at  the  Priory,  the  Lady 
Anne  rang  for  Deborah  Conroy,  and  bade  her 
send  Elsie,  when  she  was  dressed,  into  her 
chamber.  Elsie  came  at  once,  a  fair,  sweet, 
pure  vision  in  flowing  white,  with  no  orna- 
ment but  some  natural  blossoms  nestling  at 
her  bosom.  She  was  very  pale  and  trembling, 
for  the  day  had  been  long  and  trying  for  her. 
She  looked  timidly  at  her  grandmother's  face, 
and,  seeing  a  kind  smile  there,  stole  over  to 
her  chair,  and  knelt  down  beside  it. 

'  My  child,  my  darling,  I  was  very  rough 
with  you  this  morning,'  said  the  Lady  Anne, 
with  the  utmost  gentleness.  '  I  am  a  pas- 


MISS  RITCHIE'S  COUSIN  BETSY.  221 

sionate,  cross  old  woman,  who  even  in  age 
has  not  learned  that  life  is  full  of  disappoint- 
ments. I  would  not  break  your  heart,  my 
Elsie,  only  do  not  leave  me  for  a  little  while. 
Stay  by  me  till  the  end.  I  shall  not  see  the 
year  out,  and  then  you  can  go  back  to  the 
friends  you  love  so  well.' 

Elsie  burst  into  tears.  The  relief  was  so 
great  that  she  was  unable  to  bear  it.  By  and 
by,  growing  calmer,  she  rose,  and,  folding 
her  soft  arms  about  her  grandmother's  neck, 
pressed  her  pure  lips  to  the  furrowed  brow. 

1  Stand  back  a  little,  my  child,  till  I  look  at 
you,'  she  said  a  little  hurriedly,  for  that  kiss 
stabbed  her  selfish  heart  to  the  core.  '  You 
look  fair  and  sweet,  Elsie,  but  you  must  have 
some  other  ornament  than  these  flowers.' 

4 1  like  flowers  best,  grandmother.  I  have 
mamma's  necklace,  you  know,  but  I  did  not 
put  it  on,'  said  Elsie  gently. 

'  I  have  something  for  you,  my  child,  which 
you  must  wear  to-night  in  token  of  forgive- 
ness. Unlock  the  wardrobe  and  fetch  me  my 
large  jewel-case  from  the  lower  shelf.' 

Elsie  obeyed,  and  stood  by  while  her 
grandmother  opened  the  case.  From  thence 


222  CARLO  WR1E. 


she  took  a  necklace  of  turquoise  as  blue  as 
the  forget-me-not,  set  in  gold,  of  rare  and 
costly  workmanship. 

'  That  was  one  of  my  wedding  gifts,  given 
me  by  my  aunt  the  Countess  of  Lyndon. 
Put  it  on,'  she  said ;  and  then,  lifting  out  the 
upper  tray,  revealed  to  Elsie's  gaze  a  sparkling 
array  of  diamonds,  showing  in  exquisite  relief 
against  the  rich  purple  velvet  upon  which  they 
lay.  '  I  had  hoped  these  also  would  be  yours. 
They  are  destined  for  Howard's  wife,'  said 
the  Lady  Anne,  introducing  an  admirable 
ring  of  regret  in  her  voice.  '  But  never  mind, 
I  know  your  heart  is  not  set  upon  such 
baubles.  Now,  put  past  the  case,  and  run 
down-stairs  to  be  in  readiness  for  the  guests.' 

Elsie  obeyed,  and  flew  down-stairs  singing, 
for  the  nightmare  which  oppressed  her  heart 
had  fled,  and  the  sun  shone  again. 

It  would  all  come  right  in  the  end,  oh  yes, 
she  told  herself.  In  her  softer  moods  her 
grandmother  would  grant  her  anything,  and 
before  the  summer  came,  her  happy  feet 
would  once  more  cross  the  threshold  of  dear 
Lintlaw. 


BLIGHTED    HOPE. 

.HERE  is  Elsie,  Marjorie?'  asked 
Howard  Traquair,  coming  into  the 
drawing-room  at  Lyndon  one  lovely 
afternoon  in  the  early  summer. 

4  I  think  she  is  in  the  conservatory,  Howard. 
What  do  you  want  with  her  ? ' 

'  To  speak  to  her,  of  course.  I  can't  leave 
my  good-bye  till  the  last  minute.  I  won't  likely 
see  her  again  for  long  enough.  Aunt  Anne 
speaks  of  coming  to  Traquair  in  the  autumn, 
but  when  I  looked  at  her  to-day,  I  thought 
the  chances  were  against  it.' 

Marjorie  rose  from  her  seat  in  the  low 
window  where  she  had  been  resting,  after  the 
bustle  of  packing  for  the  Scotch  journey 
she  was  to  begin  that  evening.  The  brother 


224  CARLOWRIE. 


and  sister  had  lingered  long  at  Lyndon,  loving 
it  for  Elsie's  sake  more  than  for  its  own,  but 
now  they  were  going  to  make  their  home  in 
Scotland.  The  brief  visits  Howard  had  paid 
to  the  goodly  heritage  which  was  now  all  his 
own,  had  convinced  him  that  his  presence 
there  was  greatly  needed.  But  the  Lady 
Anne  had  been  loth  to  let  them  go,  and 
Howard  did  not  suspect  the  chief  cause  of 
that  reluctance. 

1  Howard,'  said  Marjorie,  laying  a  gentle 
hand  on  her  brother's  arm,  'don't  say  any- 
thing to  Elsie  yet.  I  know  she  will  not  listen 
to  you.  She  has  never  told  me,  but  I  am 
afraid  her  hearf  is  left  behind  in  Scotland.  I 
tell  you  this  to  save  you  needless  pain.' 

Howard  bit  his  lip,  and  slightly  turned 
away.  Well,  it  was  not  a  pleasant  piece  of 
news. 

'I'll  try  my  luck,  any  way,  Marjorie,'  he 
said ;  '  I  can  but  fail,  and  Elsie  will  be  honest 
with  me,  I  know.' 

So  off  he  went,  hoping  yet  fearing,  to  the 
conservatory  which  opened  off  the  dining- 
room  of  the  Priory.  Elsie  was  not  there,  but 
through  the  windows  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  a 


BLIGHTED  HOPE.  22$ 


figure  in  sober  grey,  walking  with  listless 
steps  among  the  elms  in  the  park.  In  a  few 
seconds  he  was  striding  across  the  turf  towards 
her.  She  heard  his  step,  and  came  to  meet 
him,  with  a  frank,  sweet,  yet  somewhat  mourn- 
ful smile  on  her  lips. 

'I  left  Marjorie  resting,  Howard,  and  came 
out  for  a  breath  of  air.  Is  it  not  pleasant  out 
of  doors  to-day  ?' 

'Very;  and  that  is  a  fair  picture/  said 
Howard,  pointing  to  the  wide  acres  of 
meadowland  which  stretched  in  undulating 
waves  away  across  to  the  low  range  of  hills 
in  the  far  distance. 

It  was  truly  a  pleasant  view,*  suggestive  of 
peace  and  plenty  and  quiet  loveliness.  '  But 
that  day  Elsie's  eyes,  longing  for  the  green 
vales  and  rugged  heather  hills  of  her  native 
land,  could  see  no  beauty  in  an  English  land- 
scape. 

4 1  was  not  thinking  about  it,  Howard.  I 
am  very  sad  and  miserable,'  she  replied  list- 
lessly. '  What  do  you  suppose  will  become  of 
me  after  Marjorie  and  you  are  away  ? ' 

'You  will  miss  us,  then,  Elsie?'  asked 
Howard  bluntly,  and  his  eyes  were  danger- 


226  CARLOWRIE. 


ously  eloquent,  only  Elsie's  face  was  turned 
away,  and  she  did  not  even  take  heed  of  his 
words.  Her  heart  was  filled  with  one  unutter- 
able, passionate  yearning  to  travel  with  them 
to  Scotland, — to  breathe  the  air  of  the  land 
she  loved,  to  tread  its  soil,  and,  last  and  best 
of  all,  to  see  face  to  face  once  more  the  dear 
ones  at  Lintlaw.  Oh,  but  all  the  waywardness 
of  past  years,  the  foolish  yearnings  for  an  idle 
and  luxurious  life,  were  bitterly  punished 
to-day ! 

'  Aunt  Anne  has  promised  to  bring  you  to 
Traquair  in  the  autumn,  Elsie,'  said  Howard, 
with  a  gentleness  which  was  beautiful  in  its 
manliness.  '  You  will  come  to  Marjorie  and 
me,  dear  ?  we  will  be  hungering  for  you.' 

'  Yes,  Howard,  I  will  come  if  grandmother 
will  let  me/  she  said ;  and,  turning  her  head, 
lifted  her  eyes  full  of  tears  to  his  face.  '  For- 
give me  crying,  Howard.  I  am  only  a  poor, 
weak  girl,  and  I  feel  so  helpless  alone  here, 
and  life  seems  so  hard  just  at  present ;  and  oh, 
I  am  grateful  to  Marjorie  and  you  for  all  your 
love  and  kindness  to  me ! ' 

That  look,  these  pathetic  words,  cast 
Howard  Traquair's  prudence  to  the  winds. 


BLIGHTED  HOPE.  227 

He  bent  forward,  and  the  eyes  looking  into 
Elsie's  so  overflowed  with  passionate  love 
that  hers  fell. 

'  Elsie,  Elsie,  come  with  us  now !  I  can 
give  you  a  sweeter,  happier  life  than  this. 
You  will  do  just  as  you  will.  I  love  you, 
Marjorie  loves  you.  Come  with  us ! '  he  said 
eagerly.  '  I  want  you  for  my  wife,  Elsie ;  I 
love  you  beyond  anything  on  earth.' 

Elsie  trembled  from  head  to  foot,  and 
covered  her  blushing  face  with  her  hands. 
Oh !  why  was  life  so  hard  ?  why  was  it  that 
she  must  be  unkind  to  those  she  loved,  and 
stab  truest  friends  to  the  heart  ? 

'  Howard,  Howard,  hush,  oh  hush,  my  heart 
will  break  ! '  she  said,  in  low  and  broken  tones, 
and,  leaning  against  the  tree  beside  her,  she 
burst  into  tears. 

It  cost  Howard  Traquair  a  mighty  effort 
to  restrain  the  impulse  prompting  him  to 
clasp  the  drooping  figure  in  his  strong  arms, 
to  shelter  her  from  every  breath  of  sorrow  or 
care.  But  he  dared  not,  for  her  trembling 
words  had  rung  the  death-knell  of  his  hopes. 

'  Elsie,  forgive  me  if  I  have  pained  you,' 
he  said  humbly  and  earnestly.  '  I  did  not 


228  CARLOWRIE. 


mean  it.  I  could  not  help  myself,  I  loved 
you  so.' 

Then  Elsie  raised  her  head  and  looked  at 
him  again  with  steadfast,  mournful  eyes. 

'  I  would  give  the  world  almost,  Howard, 
if  I  could  have  said  yes  to  what  you  ask  me,' 
she  said  quite  quietly.  '  I  love  you  so  well, 
as  a  sister  might,  dear  Howard,  that  I  will 
tell  you  what  I  have  never  told  a  soul  on 
earth  but  grandmother,  that  my  heart  is  not 
mine  to  give.  I  gave  it  away,  Howard;  and 
though  I  believe  mine  will  never  be  a  happy 
love,  I  cannot  bring  it  back.  I  think  those 
born  in  Scotland  are  leal  aye  to  their  first 
love.' 

Howard  Traquair  turned  away  for  a 
moment.  The  struggle  was  sharp  but  brief. 
When  Elsie  saw  his  face  again  it  wore  an 
expression  of  sympathy,  of  tender  compassion, 
beautiful  to  see. 

'  God  help  and  strengthen  you,  dear  Elsie/ 
he  said,  with  a  great  gentleness.  '  I  love  you 
so  well  that  it  will  be  my  hope  and  prayer 
that  happiness  may  yet  be  yours,  if  he  is 
worthy.' 

Then  he  went  away,  and  Elsie  saw  him  no 


BLIGHTED  HOPE.  229 

more,  until,  just  in  the  last  bustle  of  parting, 
he  took  her  hand  in  a  grip  of  iron,  and  looked 
straight  into  her  face,  his  true  eyes  dim  with 
a  feeling  which  could  find  no  expression  in 
words.  Never  had  he  seemed  so  noble,  so 
manly,  so  altogether  worthy  of  a  woman's 
love.  Never  had  Elsie  so  honoured  him,  so 
loved  him,  as  she  did  at  that  moment.  She 
bent  her  head  over  his  hand  and  lightly 
touched  it  with  her  lips.  When  he  got  out 
of  doors  he  saw  that  she  had  left  a  tear 
upon  it.  Poor  Ho  ward!  Poor  Elsie!  Very 
ravelled  is  the  skein  of  life  ! 

That  evening  the  Lady  Anne  Traquair 
came  down  to  the  drawing-room  for  the  first 
time  for  many  weeks.  She  was  carefully  and 
elegantly  dressed,  but  the  rich  black  silk  hung 
loosely  on  her  wasted  frame,  and  the  fine  lace 
ruffles  about  her  throat  seemed  to  show  more 
plainly  the  painful  thinness  and  the  ghastly 
pallor  of  her  face.  She  found  in  the  drawing- 
room,  as  she  expected,  her  grand-daughter 
and  Deborah  Conroy.  The  latter  was  at  her 
usual  work, — these  hands  dared  know  no 
idleness, — but  Elsie  was  lying  back  on  a  low 
chair,  with  her  eyes  closed  and  her  hands  idly 


230  CARLOWRIE. 


folded  on  her  lap.  The  Lady  Anne  entered 
softly  and  stood  looking  for  a  little  time  upon 
the  unconscious  face  of  her  grand-daughter. 
These  weary  months  of  suspense  and  heart- 
sickness  had  told,  and  very  sorely,  on  Elsie 
Beatoun.  The  rounded  cheek  was  sharpened, 
the  eyes  looked  out  from  shadowy  hollows, 
while  the  sweet  lids  had  a  pitiful  droop  in 
them  sadder  than  tears. 

It  was  early  summer  now,  as  I  said,  and 
still  there  had  come  no  answer  to  Elsie's 
letters,  and  of  late  there  had  crept  into  the 
girl's  mind  a  feeling  of  bitterness  akin  to 
anger  against  those  who  had  treated  her  with 
so  much  coldness  and  neglect.  She  had  done 
nothing  to  merit  such  treatment,  for  it  was 
not  of  her  free  will  that  she  had  come  to 
Lyndon,  and  in  her  letters  she  never  failed 
to  repeat  that  when  she  reached  the  age 
of  one-and-twenty  no  power  on  earth  should 
keep  her  away  from  Lintlaw,  and  from  the 
fulfilling  of  her  plighted  troth.  All  these 
assurances,  as  well  as  the  passionate,  loving 
pleadings  which  accompanied  them,  had  been 
passed  over  with  an  unbroken  silence  which 
seemed  to  mean  contempt.  They  had  never 


BLIGHTED  HOPE.  231 


loved  her  as  she  loved  them ;   ah,  no !    else 
they  never  could  have  forgotten  her  so  soon. 

Never,  even  in  her  hours  of  darkest  doubt 
and  bewilderment  and  pain,  did  a  suspicion  ot 
treachery  enter  the  mind  of  Elsie  Beatoun. 
She  was  herself  pure  and  high-souled  and 
open  as  the  day,  and,  moreover,  had  been  all 
her  life  long  accustomed  to  good,  honest, 
upright  folks,  therefore  she  was  the  more 
easily  deceived  in  her  grandmother.  She 
was  grateful  for  her  considerate  kindness 
during  that  weary  time,  doubly  so  for  her 
silence  regarding  Hew  Dalrymple,  and  she 
showed  that  gratitude  in  a  thousand  nameless 
and  endearing  ways,  which  might  have  moved 
the  stoniest  heart.  But  the  Lady  Anne, 
though  sometimes  touched,  steeled  herself 
against  her  better  impulses,  and  fixed  her 
mind  unalterably  on  the  end  she  had  in  view. 
Would  she  live  to  see  her  dream  fulfilled,  or 
would  death  cut  her  off  in  the  midst  of  her 
scheming  and  plotting  before  she  saw  the 
building  up  of  Traquair  ?  That  question  rose 
up  ceaselessly  before  the  Lady  Anne's  mind, 
especially  in  the  silent  night  watches  when 
she  was  alone  with  her  own  thoughts.  Watch- 


232  CARLOWRIE. 


ing  her  grand-daughter  keenly,  noting  the 
gradual  paling  of  the  delicate  cheek,  the  fading 
of  the  lustre  from  the  bright  eyes,  she  decided 
that  it  was  time  now  to  pluck  up  the  loosely- 
rooted  hope  which  she  was  well  aware  still 
lingered  in  the  girl's  heart. 

With  her  usual  nervous  solicitude  for  her 
kinswoman's  comfort,  Deborah  Conroy  rose 
to  place  for  her  a  chair  near  the  hearth  (for 
though  it  was  May  there  were  fires  in  the 
Priory  rooms  still),  and  Elsie  opened  her  eyes. 

'Oh,  grandmother,  have  you  come  down  ?'  she 
asked,  in  surprise.  '  Do  you  feel  much  better  ? ' 

'  I  am  at  least  no  worse,'  replied  the  Lady 
Anne.  '  Deborah,  leave  us  for  a  little ;  I 
would  speak  with  my  grand-daughter.' 

Deborah  obeyed,  nothing  loth  ;  she  was  in- 
finitely more  at  ease  out  of  her  kinswoman's 
presence  than  in  it. 

Then  the  Lady  Anne  sat  down  very  close 
to  the  fire,  for  she  was  always  chilly  now,  and 
looked  with  keen  eyes  into  the  sweet,  pale 
face  of  the  girl  before  her.  Oh,  how  like  she 
was  to  the  fair  young  mother  she  had  so  early 
lost !  Looking  at  her  the  Lady  Anne's  heart 
was  stirred  by  a  thousand  memories  of  the 


BLIGHTED  HOPE.  233 

past.  She  could  almost  have  forgotten  the 
lapse  of  years,  and  think  it  was  her  own 
daughter  sitting  beside  her,  as  she  had  been 
used  to  do,  before  the  sorrow  fell  upon 
Traquair.  To  banish  these  memories,  as  well 
as  any  emotion  which  naturally  accompanied 
them,  the  Lady  Anne  broke  the  silence. 

'  The  house  seems  strange  and  desolate 
to-night.  Doubtless  you  sorely  miss  Howard 
and  Marjorie,'  she  said.  '  We  never  know 
how  we  love  until  those  dear  to  us  are  parted 
from  us.' 

It  was  an  injudicious  speech,  for  it  was  the 
very  echo  of  every  feeling  in  Elsie's  heart 
Her  lip  quivered,  and  her  hand  stole  up  to 
her  eyes,  as  if  to  hide  what  was  revealed  in 
them.  With  failing  bodily  strength,  Elsie's 
power  of  self-control  was  failing  also  ;  she  was 
more  easily  moved  to  tears,  more  easily  hurt 
than  of  yore  ;  her  sensitiveness  in  every  point 
had  greatly  increased. 

'  You  will  greatly  miss  them,  Elsie  ? '  pur- 
sued the  Lady  Anne,  in  a  questioning  tone. 

'  Of  course  I  will,  grandmother,'  Elsie 
answered  her.  '  It  would  be  strange  if  we 
did  not  all  miss  Howard  and  Marjorie.' 


234  CARLOWRIE. 


'  If  I  mistake  not,  the  Laird  of  Traquair 
was  loth  to  leave  Lyndon,  even  for  his  own 
heritage,'  said  the  Lady  Anne.  '  My  child, 
I  have  never  broached  the  subject  since  that 
unpleasant  Christmas  morning.  Am  I  seeking 
too  much  if  I  ask  you  to  tell  me  whether 
Howard  has  not  himself  confirmed  what  I 
said  regarding  his  sentiments  towards  you  ? ' 

'  You  have  a  perfect  right  to  know,  grand- 
mother, and  I  would  have  told  you  sooner 
or  later,'  said  Elsie,  with  listless  tranquillity. 
'  Howard  asked  me  to-day  to  be  his  wife.' 

'And  you  —  you  —  did  not  altogether  re- 
fuse ? '  said  the  Lady  Anne,  with  an  eagerness 
painful  to  behold. 

'  I  did,  grandmother,  and  I  told  him  why. 
Howard  and  I  understand  each  other.  He 
knows  that  I  love  him  as  dearly  as  I  could  a 
brother  of  my  own,  and  that  is  all.' 

The  Lady  Anne  shaded  her  face  with  her 
hand  now,  to  hide  the  angry  gleam  in  her 
proud  eyes.  She  must  labour  to  hide  her  real 
feelings,  else  all  chance  of  success  would  be 
gone. 

Thinking  her  grandmother  was  once  mom 
sorely  displeased  with  her,  Elsie  rose  and  knelt 


BLIGHTED  HOPE.  235 

down  by  her  chair,  laying  her  hand  lightly  on 
her  arm. 

'  Grandmother,  look  at  me.  Don't  be  angry 
with  me,  dear  grandmother;  I  am  so  unhappy,' 
she  pleaded.  '  And  I  want  to  ask  something 
from  you,  grandmother,  only  I  am  afraid.' 

'  Ask,  and  if  within  my  power,  and  I  think 
it  for  your  good,  I  will  not  refuse,'  said  the 
Lady  Anne,  striving  to  speak  not  only  calmly 
but  with  kindness. 

'  It  is  this,  grandmother,'  said  Elsie,  and 
her  beautiful  eyes  were  wide  and  pathetic  in 
their  pleading,  '  that  you  will  give  me  some 
money,  and  let  me  go  away  to  Scotland  to  see 
for  myself  whether  they  have  forgotten  me. 
It  would  satisfy  me,  dear  grandmother,  and  I 
would  come  back  to  you  content,  and  devote 
the  rest  of  my  life  to  you.  Oh,  grandmother ! 
don't  refuse ;  let  me  go,  for  I  cannot  bear  this 
heart-agony  much  longer.' 

There  was  a  brief  silence.  Then  the  Lady 
Anne  looked  full  into  the  pleading  upraised 
face  with  a  well-assumed  expression  of  sorrow 
on  her  own. 

'  My  child,  my  poor,  foolish,  trusting  child,' 
she  said,  '  I  dare  not  keep  the  truth  from  you 


236  CARLOWRIE. 


any  longer.  You  will  try  to  bear  it  with 
becoming  fortitude.' 

'  Bear  what,  grandmother  ?  what  truth  is  it  ? 
Are  they  all  dead  at  Lintlaw  ? '  asked  Elsie, 
wildly  starting  up. 

'  Be  calm,  my  child.  Kneel  down  again 
beside  me,  and  be  calm,  else  I  cannot  tell 
you,'  said  the  Lady  Anne  firmly.  Elsie  at 
once  obeyed,  but  she  was  trembling  from  head 
to  foot.  '  You  know  my  cook,  Elizabeth 
Ritchie,  has  relations  at  a  farm  in  Scotland 
quite  near  to  your  Lintlaw,'  said  the  Lady 
Anne,  with  slow  emphasis. 

'  Has  she  ?  No,  I  did  not  know.  Oh, 
grandmother,  is  it  possible  that  the  Ritchies 
of  Scotstoun  are  her  friends  ? '  exclaimed 
Elsie,  who  never  had  heard  of  Miss  Ritchie's 
cousin  Betsy  in  her  life. 

*  That  is  the  name ;  such  a  peculiar  one,  I 
always  thought,'  said  the  Lady  Anne  musingly. 
'  Well,  Elsie,  she  has  some  correspondence 
with  them,  and  I,  knowing  that  probably  they 
might  sometimes  mention  your  friends,  asked 
her  some  time  ago  if  she  knew  anything  of  the 
Dalrymples,  so  that,  if  possible,  I  might  ease 
your  suspense,  my  darling/,, 


BLIGHTED  HOPE.  237 

'  Yes,  grandmother,'  said  Elsie,  in  a  strained, 
intense  voice. 

1  My  child,  how  can  I  tell  you  ?  It  is  as  I 
thought.  They  were  never  worthy  of  your 
love  ;  for  this  Hew  Dalrymple  is  to  be  married 
this  summer  to  a  young  girl ;  her  name,  if  I 
remember  rightly,  is  Katie  Gray ;  she  lives  at 
a  farm  quite  near  to  Scotstoun.  Am  I  right  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  yes ;  Katie  Gray,  at  Southside.  I 
know  her,'  said  Elsie,  in  a  voiceless  whisper. 

'  I  kept  it  from  you,  my  child,  as  long  as  I 
could.  But  I  could  no  longer  endure  to  see 
you  fretting  after  a  faithless  lover,  you  who 
could  mate,  if  you  willed,  with  the  highest  in 
the  land.  If  you  wish  to  hear  any  further 
particulars,  ask  Elizabeth ;  she  will  give  you 
them,  or  show  you  her  cousin's  letter,  which 
she  gave  to  me  to  read.  Why,  my  child, 
what  is  it  ?  You  promised  to  be  calm.' 

'  Yes,  yes,  I  will  be,  grandmother,'  said 
Elsie,  rising  with  trembling  limbs.  '  Let  me 
go  away  up- stairs,  grandmother,  just  to  be 
alone  for  a  little.' 

So  saying,  she  walked  unsteadily  from  the 
room,  and  toiled  up  the  staircase  to  her  own 
chamber.  When  she  entered  she  shut  the 


238  CARLOWRIE. 


door,  and  then  a  great  dead  stillness  seemed 
to  settle  down  upon  Lyndon  Priory. 

Just  at  the  darkening-,  when  the  Lady  Anne 
was  about  to  leave  the  drawing-room,  Elsie 
glided  into  the  room.  The  Lady  Anne  could 
have  cried  out  at  the  change  these  hours 
had  wrought  upon  the  girl's  sweet  face.  It 
was  no  puny  grief  which  had  ploughed  these 
deep  pain-lines  upon  the  low,  white  brow,  no 
imaginary  sorrow  which  had  drawn  the  lips, 
and  cast  that  deep,  dark  shadow  in  the  beauti- 
ful eyes.  Nay,  it  was  the  agony  of  blighted 
hope,  wounded  pride,  maidenly  shame,  the 
blackness  of  desolation  and  despair.  Her 
voice  when  she  spoke  was  cairn  and  quiet, 
but  the  sweetest  note  of  its  music  was  gone. 

'It  is  over,  grandmother,'  she  said.  'Hence- 
forth I  am  yours.  I  will  devote  ^myself  to 
you,  for  your  love  will  not  fail  me.  And  when 
the  time  comes,  I  pray  God — and  I  think  He 
will  answer  my  prayer — that  He  will  take  us 
together  to  Himself.' 

Then,  as  if  to  seal  her  vow,  she  laid  one 
arm  about  the  neck  of  her  grandmother,  and, 
lifting  her  head,  kissed  her  on  the  lips. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


TRAQUAIR. 

iUST  at  the  sunset  hour,  on  the 
evening  of  the  third  day  after  their 
departure  from  Lyndon,  Howard 
Traquair  and  his  sister  arrived  at  Traquair. 
There  was  no  railway  within  thirty  miles  of 
their  home,  but  a  carriage  had  been  awaiting 
them  at  the  station  when  they  left  the  train. 
Their  drive  lay  through  some  of  the  most 
magnificent  scenery  of  the  Highlands,  and 
Marjorie,  unaccustomed  to  the  wild  and 
awful  grandeur  of  the  mountain  passes,  and 
the  deep  but  lovely  valleys,  was  awed  into 
utter  silence.  Howard,  who  had  seen  it 
several  times  before,  was  not  so  much  ab- 
sorbed in  its  contemplation,  his  mind  being 
occupied  chiefly  with  thoughts  of  Elsie.  So 


240  CARLO  WRIE. 


there  was  little  conversation  between  them 
while  the  fleet  horses  carried  them  over  the 
rocky  roads  to  their  future  home. 

The  day  and  hour  of  their  arrival  had, 
in  accordance  with  Howard's  express  desire, 
been  kept  secret,  so  that  when  they  swept 
through  the  picturesque  village  of  Traquair, 
there  was  no  demonstration  of  any  kind.  But 
the  carriage,  and  the  Laird  himself,  were  recog- 
nised, and  the  news  of  their  arrival  quickly 
spread. 

Just  when  the  red  glory  of  a  magnificent 
sunset  was  tinging  hill  and  dale  and  wild 
moorland  with  its  wondrous  light,  the  carriage 
swept  through  the  stone  gateway  into  the 
policies  of  Traquair,  and  up  an  avenue  of 
spreading  birch  and  elm  to  the  house. 

It  was  a  wild,  lovely,  picturesque  spot. 
The  house  was  of  massive  and  stately  pro- 
portions, but  it  was  the  architecture  of  a 
bygone  day.  The  windows  were  small,  the 
doorway  low  and  arched,  its  whole  appearance 
quaint  in  the  extreme.  Ivy  of  a  century's 
growth  clung  to  the  grey,  weather-beaten 
walls,  and  crept  about  the  windows,  while  the 
battlements  were  clothed  in  moss  of  living 


TRAQUAIR.  241 

green.  Looking  at  it,  the  warm  heart  of 
Marjorie  overflowed,  and  her  eyes  filled. 

'  Oh,  Howard,  how  beautiful !  If  only 
mamma  had  lived  to  come  with  us,  to  see 
the  house  of  which  she  had  heard  so  much 
and  so  often  from  papa ! '  she  exclaimed,  in 
tones  of  yearning  regret. 

Howard  did  not  speak,  but,  handing  his 
sister  from  the  carriage,  took  her  on  his 
arm  and  entered  the  house.  The  servants 
were  gathered  in  the  hall,  anxiously  waiting 
to  see  the  Laird's  sister,  who  was  to  be 
their  mistress  until  he  brought  a  wife  home 
to  Traquair.  The  sweet,  open,  girlish  face, 
the  pleasant  smile,  the  frankly  outstretched 
hand  to  one  and  all,  won  their  hearts  at 
once ;  and  one  who  had  grown  grey  in  the 
service  of  the  Traquairs,  and  who  had 
mourned  over  its  long  desolation,  ran  sob- 
bing from  them  in  his  joy. 

As  the  brother  and  sister  stepped  beneath 
their  own  roof-tree,  an  overwhelming  sense  of 
loneliness,  and  of  great  responsibility,  suddenly 
came  upon  them  both,  and  Marjorie's  fingers 
tightened  on  her  brother's  manly  arm.  He 
drew  her  into  the  library,  and  threw  about 


242  CARLOWRHL 


her  a  protecting  arm,  upon  which  she  was 
glad  to  hide  her  wet  eyes  and  trembling  lips. 

'  This  is  a  great  heritage,  Marjorie,  bringing 
with  it  a  great  responsibility,'  he  said,  with  a 
falter  in  his  manly  voice.  '  You  will  help  me 
to  do  my  work  well  ? ' 

*Yes,  dear  Howard,  with  all  my  heart,  so 
long  as  you  need  me,'  Marjorie  answered 
back  ;  '  and  God  will  help  us  both.' 

'  I  would  seek  not  only  to  restore  in  some 
measure  the  former  honour  of  Traquair,  Mar- 
jorie, but  to  spend  and  be  spent  in  God's 
service,  who  has  so  unspeakably  blessed  us,' 
said  Howard  dreamily.  'With  such  oppor- 
tunities for  doing  good,  may  He  help  us  to 
use  them  all  for  His  glory,  and  the  good  of 
those  about  us.' 

Entering  with  such  feelings,  such  earnest 
resolutions,  upon  his  inheritance,  did  Howard 
Traquair  not  bid  fair  to  become  a  model 
master,  a  boundless  influence  for  good  in 
Traquair  ?  Ay,  truly ;  and  bright,  bright 
was  the  day  now  dawning  for  Traquair  and 
Glenshee. 

That  was  an  evening  of  quiet  but  deep 
joy  for  the  brother  and  sister;  and  though 


TRAQUAIR.  243 

Elsie  Beatoun's  answer  to  his  question  had 
cast  a  shadow  over  the  heart  of  Howard 
Traquair,  he  was  too  manly  to  allow  it  to 
master  him,  or  make  him  gloomy  and  morose. 
With  so  many  blessings,  dared  he  repine 
though  one  was  withheld,  even  although  it 
seemed  the  sweetest  one  on  earth  ?  From 
the  lips  of  their  gentle  English  mother, 
Howard  and  Marjorie  Traquair  had  learned 
the  most  precious  truths  of  religion,  the 
sweetest  and  most  useful  lessons  of  life. 
One  she  had  never  failed  to  impress  upon 
their  minds,  and  it  was  the  fruit  of  her  own 
chequered  experience,  was,  never  to  allow 
disappointment  to  take  too  deep  a  hold 
upon  their  hearts,  but  to  cheerfully  accept 
the  portion  allotted  to  them  in  this  life, 
thanking  God  that  it  was  no  worse.  Howard 
Traquair  remembered  that  gentle  teaching, 
and  it  was  in  that  spirit  he  accepted  what 
was  the  greatest  disappointment  he  had  yet 
experienced.  The  evening  was  spent  in 
roaming  through  the  wide  and  spacious 
rooms  of  the  old  house,  exploring  the  pic- 
ture gallery  and  the  armoury,  and  a  thousand 
other  things  which  teemed  with  bygone  asso- 


244  CARLOWRIE. 


ciations,  with  many  strange  and  fascinating 
memories  of  the  past 

They  were  up  betimes  next  morning,  for 
Howard  was  anxious  to  take  Marjorie  out 
of  doors.  She  was  so  interested,  so  pleased, 
so  rapturous  over  everything,  that  uncon- 
sciously the  spell  of  her  sunshine  was  cast 
over  her  brother's  heart,  banishing  every 
thought  but  the  happiness  of  the  present. 
And  it  was  happiness,  to  look  abroad  from 
the  windows  of  the  stately  mansion  upon 
the  wide  acres  of  hill  and  dale,  wood  and 
meadow,  which  owned  his  sway.  Traquair 
of  Traquair  and  Glenshee !  Ay,  it  was  a 
proud,  proud  name  indeed ! 

After  a  long  ramble  through  the  park  and 
surrounding  woods,  they  returned  home  to 
prepare  for  a  drive  round  the  neighbourhood. 
They  were  met  by  a  servant,  who  announced 
visitors  in  the  drawing-room. 

'  Already,  Marjorie ! '  laughed  Howard  Tra- 
quair. '  Are  you  ready  to  play  the  hostess  ? 
Can  you  assume,  in  a  moment,  that  stately 
dignity  which  Aunt  Anne  is  so  particular  about, 
and  which  she  would  say  befits  a  Traquair  ? ' 

1 1  cannot  be  dignified,  Howard.     I  wonder 


TRAQ.UAIR.  245 

would  Aunt  Anne  call  it  a  breach  of  good 
manners  were  I  to  appear  in  the  drawing- 
room  in  this  costume  ? '  said  Marjorie  wonder- 
ingly. 

'Whether  or  no,  you  look  charming,'  said 
Howard  gallantly ;  and  he  looked  admiringly 
at  the  neat,  girlish  figure,  in  its  simple  muslin 
garb;  at  the  sweet,  winsome  face  smiling  under 
the  big  sun  -hat. 

'  Well,  come  away,'  smiled  Marjorie  back. 
'  Sir  James  and  Lady  Graham-Orde,  Mr.  and 
Miss  Hamilton.  Do  you  know  any  of  them, 
Howard  ?' 

'  Only  Sir  James ;  a  fine  old  gentleman, 
with  whom  you  will  be  at  home  at  once. 
They  live  at  Castle-Orde,  the  big  frowning 
keep  on  the  brow  of  yonder  hill,'  said  Howard, 
and  that  speech  brought  them  to  the  door  of 
the  drawing-room.  When  they  entered,  Sir 
James  Graham-Orde,  who  was  standing  on 
the  hearth,  came  forward  with  outstretched 
hands.  He  was  a  tall,  military-looking  gentle- 
man, past  middle  life,  with  a  handsome,  kindly 
face,  and  pleasant,  though  keen  blue  eyes. 

'  Welcome  again  to  your  inheritance,  Mr. 
Traquair,'  he  said  heartily.  '  And  this  is  your 


246  CARLOWRIE. 


sister  ?  My  dear,  let  me  kiss  you.  Your 
father  and  I  were  boys  together,  and  many  a 
happy  day  we  had  trout-fishing  in  the  Garry.' 

That  greeting  put  Marjorie  at  her  ease  at 
once,  and  she  was  able  to  turn  with  perfect 
self-possession  to  her  other  guests. 

Lady  Graham -Orde's  words  of  welcome  to 
Scotland  were  if  possible  warmer  than  her 
husband's;  her  childless  heart  warmed  to 
the  sweet,  frank,  unaffected  girl  who  looked 
up  into  her  face  with  a  smile,  and  a  tear 
struggled  for  the  mastery  in  her  eye. 

'  Miss  Hamilton — Miss  Traquair,  Mr.  Keith 
Hamilton ;  my  niece  and  nephew  from  the 
Lowlands,'  said  Lady  Graham-Orde ;  and 
Marjorie  bowed,  first  to  the  tall,  pale,  aris- 
tocratic-looking young  lady,  and  then  to  her 
handsome  brother.  His  eyes,  as  he  bent 
them  upon  her  flushed  face,  were  full  of 
undisguised  admiration. 

Keith  Hamilton  had  been  in  dead  earnest 
about  Elsie  Beatoun,  but,  seeing  she  had  so 
absolutely  refused  to  listen  to  him,  he  had 
done  his  best  to  think  no  more  about  her, 
and  was  now  free  to  admire  another.  He 
had  gone  off  to  the  Continent  after  Elsie 


TRAQUAIR.  247 

went  to  Lyndon,  and  his  mother  and  sister 
saw  no  more  of  him  for  months.  But  at 
Christmas  he  appeared  at  Alnwick  Hall, 
apparently  cured. 

For  a  time  the  conversation  was  general, 
turning  upon  such  topics  as  Highland  scenery 
and  life,  and  the  prospects  for  the  fishing  and 
shooting  season.  Edith  Hamilton,  anxious 
for  a  private  word  with  Miss  Traquair,  at. 
last  managed  to  move  to  her  side,  to  a  smalt 
table,  out  of  hearing  of  the  others. 

'  You  have  just  come  from  Lyndon  Priory, 
M  iss  Traquair.  Pray  tell  me  something  of  Elsie 
Beatoun,'  she  said  eagerly.  '  Is  she  well  ?' 

1  Oh  yes,  Elsie  is  well.  She  is  coming  to 
Traquair,  Miss  Hamilton,  in  the  autumn. 
If  you  are  at  Castle-Orde  then,  you  will  see 
her,'  answered  Marjorie,  and  quite  uncon- 
sciously glanced  in  her  brother's  direction  as 
she  spoke.  Edith  Hamilton  noted  that  look, 
and  put  upon  it  her  own  construction. 

'  Tell  me  something  more  about  her.  Next 
week  my  brother  and  I  go  home  to  Mid- 
lothian. We  have  not  been  at  Tyneholm  for 
fully  a  year ;  and  I  shall  be  pleased  to  carry 
to  Elsie's  old  friends  the  latest  news  of  her.' 


248  CARLOIVRIE. 


'  Really  there  is  little  to  tell,  Miss  Hamil- 
ton,' smiled  Marjorie.  '  Our  life  at  Lyndon 
was  very  quiet.  Aunt  Anne  is  not  strong, 
you  know,  and  Elsie  is  devoted  to  her.' 

*  Lady  Traquair  returns  that  devotion.  She 
will  be  extremely  fond  of  Elsie,  I  should 
imagine  ?'  said  Miss  Hamilton  inquiringly. 

1  Oh  yes ;  Aunt  Anne  worships  Elsie,  I 
verily  believe.  Howard  and  I  thought  she 
was  even  selfish  in  her  love  sometimes.  I 
do  not  know  how  she  will  ever  part  with 
her,'  said  Marjorie,  and  again  her  unconscious 
eyes  travelled  to  her  brother's  face.  He  was 
not  many  yards  distant,  and  she  was  only 
wondering  whether  their  conversation  was 
audible  to  him. 

1  Ah,  then,  there  is  a  prospect  of  Elsie 
leaving  her  grandmother,'  said  Edith  Hamil- 
ton, with  a  slightly  amused  smile,  which  pro- 
voked an  answering  one  on  Marjorie's  face. 

'  Elsie  is  very  fair  and  loveable,  Miss 
Hamilton,  and  she  will  not  likely  remain 
at  Lyndon  all  her  life,'  she  replied  lightly. 
'  You  knew  Elsie's  life  in  Scotland  ? '  she 
added  inquiringly. 

'Intimately.     The  people  with  whom  she 


TRAQUAIR.  249 

lived  are  farmers  on  our  lands  of  Tyneholm,' 
answered  Miss  Hamilton. 

Another  question  was  upon  Marjorie's  lips, 
which,  for  Howard's  sake,  she  was  longing  to 
ask.  But  she  would  be  loyal  to  Elsie ;  for 
since  Elsie  had  not  told  her,  what  right  had 
she  to  pry  into  that  past  life,  to  learn  its 
innocent  secrets  from  the  lips  of  others  ? 

'  I  should  think  they  must  have  missed  her 
very  much/  she  said  a  little  sadly.  '  I  hear 
Lady  Graham-Orde  talking  of  going ;  you  will 
excuse  me,  Miss  Hamilton,  I  must  speak  to  her.' 

'  I  have  a  bit  of  news  for  you,  Keith,'  said 
Edith  Hamilton  the  first  moment  she  was 
alone  with  her  brother.  '  From  what  Miss 
Traquair  said,  I  gather  that  Elsie  is  engaged 
to  her  brother,  and  that  the  marriage  is  likely 
to  take  place  in  the  autumn.' 

'  A  good  match  for  her.  Traquair  seems  a 
fine  fellow,'  replied  Keith,  his  careless  tone 
proving  that  the  news  did  not  affect  him 
vitally;  'and  his  sister  is  very  charming. 
When  Elsie  becomes  the  Lady  of  Traquair 
and  Glenshee,  will  it  be  congt  for  her,  I 
wonder,  or  will  they  be  going  to  live  happily 
en  famille  ? ' 


250  CARLOWRIE. 


*  I  don't  know,  Keith ;  of  course  I  did  not 
ask.  But  I  wonder  what  they  will  say  to  this 
at  Lintlaw.' 

'  I  don't  know.  It  will  be  rather  a  drop,  I 
should  imagine,  on  Dalrymple  of  Carlowrie. 
I  say,  Edith,  I  wish  you'd  get  my  mother  to 
ask  the  Traquairs  to  Tyneholm  while  we're 
there,  will  you  ? ' 

'Ask  her  yourself,  Keith;  you  know  you'll 
get  anything  from  mamma  for  the  asking,' 
replied  Edith.  '  I  cannot  help  thinking  of 
this  news,  Keith.  Lady  of  Traquair  and 
Glenshee !  What  a  position  for  our  unpre- 
tending little  Elsie !  She  could  patronize  me 
then  if  she  liked,  Keith,  for  Traquair  is  an 
older  and  more  honourable  name  than  Hamil- 
ton. Won't  I  triumph  over  mamma !  She 
used  to  laugh  so  at  me  for  saying  Elsie 
would  grace  any  station,  and  that  I  believed 
she  was  d  lady  born.' 

1  Elsie  has  never  been  back  at  Lintlaw  since 
she  left,  I  suppose  ? '  said  Keith. 

'  I  am  not  sure,  but  I  rather  think  not. 
From  what  mamma  saw  of  Lady  Anne 
Traquair,  and  also  from  what  Miss  Traquair 
said  to-day,  I  should  imagine  that  Elsie  will 


TRAQUAIR.  251 

have  some  difficulty  in  getting  away  from  her 
grandmother.  It  will  be  better  for  her  too, 
Keith,  not  to  keep  up  intercourse  with  the 
Dairy mples.  Now  that  Mrs.  Dairy mple  is 
dead,  it  would  not  matter  so  much.  I  should 
have  been  sorry  if  she  had  been  grieved  over 
the  parting  from  Elsie.  Of  course  she  can  be 
properly  grateful,  and  all  that,  without  making 
a  fuss  over  them.  How  I  should  like  to  see 
Elsie  again !  We  must  make  an  effort  to 
come  here  in  August.  You  were  always  fond 
of  shooting  over  the  moors  of  Castle-Orde.' 

Keith  laughed  at  his  sister's  little  bit  of 
diplomacy. 

1  You  get  the  Traquairs  to  Tyneholm  next 
month,  Edith,  and  I'll  arrange  the  autumn  visit,' 
he  replied.  '  So  we  will  make  a  bargain  of  it.' 

So  they  laid  their  plans,  and  talked  over 
Elsie's  coming  as  mistress  of  Traquair,  as 
if  it  was  a  settled  thing.  Edith  Hamilton 
had  allowed  her  imagination  to  get  the  better 
of  her,  and  because  she  thought  it  would  be  a 
suitable  match  for  Elsie,  at  once  resolved  that 
it  was  to  take  place. 

But  when  autumn  came,  Elsie  Beatoun's 
future  was  settled  in  another  way. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

DEAR   LINTLAW   AGAIN. 

IN  the  parlour  window  at  Lintlaw  sat 
Christian  Dalrymple  on  a  summer 
afternoon,  busy  with  the  weekly  pile 
of  mending.  The  house  was  very  quiet,  Mr. 
Dalrymple  being  busy  in  the  hayfield,  Erne 
picking  currants  for  the  jelly-making,  and  the 
laddies,  as  usual,  at  school.  Christian  liked  the 
quiet  hour  intervening  between  dinner  and 
tea ;  for  then,  over  her  knitting  or  sewing,  she 
could  recall  tenderest,  sweetest  memories  of 
*  mother,'  and  think  over  all  the  blessings  and 
joys  as  well  as  the  cares  of  her  life.  I  think 
Christian's  face  was,  if  possible,  sweeter  than 
it  used  to  be. 

Her  experience  as  a  sister-mother  in  that 
motherless  household  had  lent  to  her  an  added 


262 


DEAR  LIN  TLA  W  A  GAIN.  253 

tenderness  and  gentleness.  Looking  at  her, 
you  seemed  to  know  that  she  had  care  and 
thought  for  everybody,  and  that  she  was, 
indeed,  a  guiding  light,  a  pillar  of  strength 
and  loving-kindness  to  Lintlaw.  She  was 
very  happy, — happier,  I  believe,  than  she  had 
ever  been  before.  Her  hands  were  full,  and  her 
heart  too,  for  there  were  many,  many  claims 
upon  her  love ;  but  though  her  labours  knew 
no  end,  though  household  and  family  cares  so 
encompassed  her  that  she  had  little  time  for 
any  thought  of  self,  she  had  her  reward  in  her 
father's  utter  dependence  and  strange  rugged 
clinging  to  her,  in  Effie's  looking  up  for  guid- 
ance in  learning  of  household  ways,  in  the 
clamorous  demands  made  upon  her  time  by 
the  noisy  laddies,  whom  mother  had  been  so 
'  wae  '  to  leave.  Then,  had  she  not  that  other 
love,  purified,  strengthened,  grown  sweeter  and 
stronger  and  more  precious  in  its  unselfish- 
ness, to  cheer  her  on  her  way;  and  last  and 
best  of  all,  the  consciousness  that  God's  bless- 
ing was  upon  her  aye  ?  It  was  nine  months 
now  since  mother  went  away  from  Lintlaw. 
The  first  bitter  edge  of  the  grief  had  worn 
away,  and  now  it  was  only  a  tender,  lingering 


254  CARLOIVRIE. 


regret, — a  regret  which  at  times  became  a 
yearning  hunger  of  the  heart,  and  caused  the 
eyes  to  overflow  at  sight  of  the  empty  chair. 
Not  yet  had  Christian  quite  lost  the  habit  of 
looking  to  see  that  mother  in  her  accustomed 
place.  Sometimes,  especially  in  the  stillness 
of  the  afternoons,  she  would  catch  herself 
listening  for  her  stirring  in  the  bedroom 
up-stairs,  and  then  hold  her  breath,  almost 
expecting  to  hear  her  footfall  on  the  stair. 
Not  all  at  once  can  we  lay  aside  these  little 
things,  and  I  think  it  well  that  the  weaning 
comes  so  gradually,  it  seems  less  hard  to  bear. 
Sorrow  will  lead  us  gently,  if  we  will  allow 
ourselves  to  be  led ;  and  even  in  the  path  of 
shadows  there  is  a  strange,  fearful  joy,  which 
savours  more  of  heaven  than  earth.  Such 
Christian  Dalrymple  had  often  experienced 
since  that  mournful  day  on  which  mother  left 
Lintlaw. 

About  three  o'clock  Christian  heard  Rover's 
warning  bark,  as  he  lay  basking  in  the  sun  in 
front  of  the  house,  and  she  rose  and  went  to 
the  door  to  see  if  there  was  any  one  coming. 
Shading  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  she  saw 
coming  across  the  Cows'  Park  from  the  Lady's 


DEAR  LINTLA  W  A  GAIN.  255 

Road  the  angular  figure  of  Miss  Ritchie  of 
Scotstoun.  Then  Christian  went  back  to  see 
that  the  kettle  was  on  the  hob,  and  stole 
away  to  meet  her,  calling  to  Effie,  as  she  went 
past  the  garden  dyke,  to  leave  her  currant- 
picking  and  get  her  face  washed. 

Christian  was  dressed  for  the  afternoon  in 
a  print  dress,  a  white  ground  with  a  running 
black  flower  upon  it ;  a  nice  black  apron,  and 
her  usual  spotless  collar  and  cuffs.  The  print 
dress  was  her  father's  especial  admiration, 
and  the  admiration  of  somebody  else  as  well. 

She  had  not  far  to  go,  for  Miss  Ritchie  was 
a  brisk  walker,  and  was  just  preparing  to  step 
over  the  stile  when  Christian  reached  it. 

'  I  saw  you  coming,  Miss  Ritchie/  said 
Christian  blithely.  '  I  am  pleased  to  see  ye. 
What's  come  ower  ye  this  long  time  ? ' 

'  I  dinna  ken ;  ae  thing  an*  anither.  Are 
ye  yer  lane  ?'  queried  Miss  Ritchie. 

1  Yes,  an'  no'  much  adae.  This  was 
washin'  week,  an'  I  aye  tak'  a  rest  for  twa 
days  after  it.' 

'  Are  ye  aye  washin'  awa'  yersel',  Kirsten  ?' 
queried  Miss  Ritchie,  as  they  leisurely  ap- 
proached the  house.  '  Ye' re  an  awfu'  lassie. 


CARLOWR1E. 


Workin'  early  an'  late,  an'  ay  sae  blithe  an' 
cheery.  The  very  sicht  o'  ye  does  a  body 
guid.' 

'  Mother  aye  said  a  laugh  was  cheap  medi- 
cine, an'  seldom  failed  to  cure,'  said  Christian, 
not  sadly,  but  with  that  tender  mingling  of 
regret  and  love  which  was  inseparable  from 
any  thought  or  mention  of  her  mother. 

1  Ay,'  said  Miss  Ritchie.  '  Oh,  Kirsten, 
woman,  I  miss  yer  mither,'  she  added,  with  an 
earnestness  which  had  something  yearning 
and  passionate  about  it. 

'  A'body  misses  mother,'  replied  Christian 
very  softly,  and  her  tender  eyes  travelled  with 
unconscious  but  loving  gaze  to  the  green  brae- 
side  of  Crichtoun,  where  the  gowans  blew 
above  a  precious  grave. 

Then  in  silence  they  entered  the  house,  and 
though  Miss  Ritchie  refused  as  usual  to  go 
up-stairs  to  take  off  her  bonnet,  she  laid  it 
down  on  the  side-table,  and  they  sat  down  in 
the  window  to  have  a  quiet  chat. 

'An'  hoo's  the  minister,  Kirsten  ?'  inquired 
Miss  Ritchie,  with  her  usual  lack  of  ceremony. 
'  He'll  hae  sitten  doon  to  his  bachelor  ways  in 
the  Manse  again  ?' 


DEAR  LINTLA  W  A  GAIN.  257 

'  Yes;  he  was  here  yestreen,  an'  he'll  be  here 
the  night  likely,'  answered  Christian,  with  a 
little  smile.  '  It's  just  his  e'enin'  walk  frae 
the  Manse  to  Lintlaw.' 

'  That's  weel.  He  maun  be  a  great  comfort 
to  you,  an'  you  to  him,'  said  Miss  Ritchie. 
'  I  never  saw  twa  sae  weel  fitted,  nor  I  never 
saw  twa  bear  a  trial  in  a  mair  beautifu'  spirit. 
Ye  are  a  lesson  to  us  a',  Kirsten  Dalrymple.' 

'  Wheesht,  wheesht,  Miss  Ritchie,'  said 
Christian,  and  her  eyes  filled.  '  Only  oor 
duty,  plain  and  simple.  It  lay  straight  in  my 
way,  an'  I  couldna  pass  it  by.  I  deserve  nae 
praise,  though  I  mony  a  time  think  no'  mony 
men  wad  hae  dune  just  like  Mr.  Laidlaw.' 

1  Ye  may  say't ;  but  yer  reward's  comin', 
yours  an'  his,  and  there'll  be  a  happy  wife  at 
the  Manse  by  and  by,'  said  Miss  Ritchie. 
'  Weel,  Kirsten,'  she  broke  off,  with  a  sudden 
change  of  tone,  '  I've  corned  to  tell  ye  I've 
made  a  perfect  fule  o'  mysel'.' 

'In  what  way,  Miss  Ritchie?'  asked 
Christian,  but  her  eyes  were  brimming  with 
laughter,  for  she  had  a  pretty  good  guess  at 
what  Miss  Ritchie  meant. 

'  Oh,  I  believe  ye  ken  brawly.     I'm  five- 


258  CARLOWRIE. 


an'-forty,  Kirsten  Dalrymple,  an'  I'm  gaun  to 
mak'  a  fule  o'  mysel'  by  marryin'  Robbie  Blair 
afore  Martinmas,'  said  Miss  Ritchie,  with  a 
comical  blending  of  humour  and  earnestness 
in  her  manner.  '  I  couldna  rest  till  I  corned 
to  tell  ye,  Kirsten,  as  I  wad  hae  telled  yer 
mither  had  she  been  here.' 

*  God  bless  ye,  an'  gie  ye  every  happiness, 
Miss  Ritchie,'  said  Christian  heartily,  and, 
bending  forward,  she  took  Miss  Ritchie's  toil- 
hardened  palm  in  her  firm,  kindly  clasp.  '  I'm 
sure  ye'll  be  baith  happy  and  comfortable  at 
Newlandburn,  an'  it's  nearer  Lintlaw  than 
Scotstoun.' 

'  Ay,  an'  ye  dinna  think  me  sic  a  fule  after 
a'  ? '  said  Miss  Ritchie  wistfully.  '  I  said  to 
Robbie  Blair  I  thocht  perfect  shame  to  let 
folk  ken.  It's  no'  as  I  had  been  a  young 
lass  siccan  as  you,  Kirsten.' 

1  Why  should  ye  think  shame  ?  Ye  should 
rather  be  prood,  as  ony  woman  might  be, 
o'  a  fine  man  like  Mr.  Blair,'  said  Christian. 
1  I'm  sure  father  an'  a'body  that  hears  it  '11  be 
pleased.  I'll  be  yer  bridemaiden,  if  ye  like, 
Miss  Ritchie.' 

'  God  bless  ye,  Kirsten,  ye  are  yer  mither's 


DEAR  LINTLA  W  A  GAIN.  259 

dochter,  I  can  say  nae  mair/said  Miss  Ritchie, 
and  she  actually  shed  a  few  tears  of  emotion. 

Thus  Christian  Dalrymple  was  sister  and 
friend  in  one  to  the  lonely  middle  -  aged 
woman  whom  many  made  fun  of,  never  think- 
ing of  the  good,  sound,  true  heart  which 
underlay  the  eccentric  ways.  Before  Chris- 
tian could  say  any  more  upon  the  interesting 
subject  of  Miss  Ritchie's  approaching  wedding, 
there  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  presently 
Effie  showed  in  Katie  Gray  of  Southside,  a 
bonny,  winsome  lassie,  a  frequent  visitor  and 
a  great  favourite  at  Lintlaw.  She  stayed  to 
her  tea,  of  course,  and  about  seven  o'clock 
Hew  came  over  from  Carlowrie  to  compare 
his  haymaking  progress  with  his  father's. 

Hew  Dalrymple  had  either  cast  aside  or 
buried  deeply  all  the  bitter  pain  which  Elsie's 
faithlessness  had  caused  him.  Her  name  was 
never  mentioned  either  in  Lintlaw  or  Car- 
lowrie, but  she  was  not  and  would  never  be 
forgotten.  Only  it  was  better  not  to  speak 
about  her,  because  all  the  talking  in  the  world 
would  never  explain  away  her  ungrateful  treat- 
ment of  those  who  had  loved  her  so  well. 
Miss  Ritchie  left  at  seven  to  be  home  in  time 


260  CARLOWRIE. 


for  her  milking,  but  Katie  Gray  remained  to 
supper  at  Lintlaw,  and  Hew  took  her  home. 

'  I  say,  father,'  said  Hew  just  as  they 
were  leaving,  '  the  Laird's  folk  came  to 
Tyneholm  the  day.  I  saw  the  Laird  at  a 
distance  craw-shooting  in  the  wud  at  the  Back 
Braes.' 

'  Ay,  man,  then  we  maun  be  at  him  aboot 
Carlowrie  fences,  an"  aboot  sinkin'  a  new  well 
for  ye.' 

'  Ay,  I  think  that.  There's  neither  water  for 
man  nor  beast  at  Carlowrie.  The  Laird  '11 
dae  that  for  us,  I  dinna  doot,'  replied  Hew. 
'  Weel,  Katie,  are  ye  ready  ? ' 

'  Comin',  Hew.  I'm  just  askin'  Christian 
for  a  pattern  for  a  toilet  cover.  Men  folks 
dinna  ken  onything  aboot  that,'  laughed  Katie, 
and  came  out  to  the  door,  rolling  up  her  work 
as  she  spoke. 

After  the  good-nights  were  said,  Christian 
and  her  father  stood  a  minute  on  the  door- 
step watching  the  well-matched  pair  go  down 
the  path  together. 

'  Ay,  Kirsten,  div  ye  think  it's  Katie  Gray 
that's  to  be  mistress  o'  Carlowrie  efter  a'  ? ' 
said  Lintlaw  slyly. 


DEA  R  LIN  TLA  W  AGAIN.  261 

A  tremulous  smile  touched  Christian's  sweet 
lips,  and  she  shook  her  head.  '  That '//  never 
be,  father,'  was  all  she  said;  for  none  knew 
better  than  Christian  whose  image  dwelt 
abidingly  in  Hew's  constant  heart  It  was 
not  in  the  Dalrymples  to  cast  love  off  and  put 
it  on  at  will.  Once  and  for  all  was  their  way. 

Just  as  Hew  and  Katie  Gray  emerged  from 
Lintlaw  road-end,  a  gentleman  on  horseback 
rode  swiftly  past  in  the  direction  of  Newland- 
rigg.  Darkness  was  beginning  to  creep  over 
by  the  Camp  Wood,  but  it  was  light  enough 
for  them  to  recognise  the  Laird  on  High- 
flyer, and  for  him  to  distinguish  them. 
Hew  touched  his  cap,  Keith  Hamilton  turned 
in  his  saddle,  and  returned  the  salutation  with 
a  broad  smile  on  his  face.  Evidently  Hew 
Dalrymple,  as  well  as  he,  had  concluded  not 
to  mourn  over  Elsie  Beatoun.  Of  course  he 
did  not  fail  to  mention  the  little  incident  to 
his  sister,  and,  needless  to  say,  she  was  greatly 
interested,  a  little  chagrined,  perhaps,  for  she 
expected  to  find  Hew  Dalrymple  disconsolate 
for  the  loss  of  Elsie. 

Next  morning  she  drove  her  ponies  through 
Newlandrigg,  and  up  the  familiar  way  to 


262  CARLOWR1E. 


Lintlaw.  Leaving  them  with  the  footman 
down  beside  the  duck-pond,  she  walked  up 
the  brae  and  through  the  trees  round  to  the 
front  of  the  house.  Then  she  caught  sight  of 
Christian  in  the  garden,  with  a  basket  over  her 
arm,  among  the  currant  bushes,  and  instead  of 
going  straight  to  the  house,  she  went  past  the 
gig-house  and  through  the  garden  gate.  It 
creaked  on  its  hinges  when  she  opened  it, 
and  then  Christian  looked  round.  Her  face 
paled  slightly,  for  the  sight  of  Edith  Hamilton 
recalled  many  memories  both  bitter  and  sweet. 
Nevertheless  she  set  down  her  basket,  and 
came  forward  to  meet  her  quietly  and  with 
outstretched  hand. 

'  Welcome  back  to  Tyneholm,  Miss  Edith,' 
she  said  courteously.  '  I  am  pleased  to  see 
you  look  so  well  and  strong.1 

'  Thank  you,  Christian  ;  I  never  was  better, 
and  I  never  was  so  glad,  I  think,  to  get  back 
to  Tyneholm.  And  how  are  you  and  Mr. 
Dalrymple,  and  all  the  rest  ? ' 

'  They  are  well,  thank  you,'  answered 
Christian,  and  slightly  turned  her  head  away, 
for  the  sweet  eyes  were  troubled,  and  some- 
how a  blurring  shadow  seemed  to  have  fallen 


DEAR  LINTLAW  AGAIN.  263 

all  at  once  over  the  sunshine  of  the  summer 
day. 

'Will  ye  come  in,  Miss  Hamilton?'  she 
added  at  length.  '  Father's  away  to  Had- 
dington  Fair,  an'  the  laddies  are  at  the  school, 
but  Effie  and  me  '11  be  pleased  to  see  you.' 

'  I  will  just  sit  here  for  a  little,  Christian, 
and  do  you  go  on  with  your  blackberry 
gathering,'  said  Miss  Hamilton,  seating  herself 
on  the  rustic  bench  which,  at  Elsie's  sugges- 
tion, Hew  had  long  ago  erected  under  the 
apple-tree  right  in  the  middle  of  the  garden, 
facing  the  gate. 

Christian  silently  turned  to  the  currant- 
bushes,  but  her  fingers  trembled  so  that  the 
few  berries  she  picked  fell  to  the  ground 
before  they  reached  the  basket. 

'  Oh,  Christian,  I  cannot  bear  to  corne  to 
Lintlaw  when  your  dear  mother  is  not  here,' 
cried  Edith  Hamilton,  breaking  the  silence 
and  bursting  into  tears.  It  was  but  another 
tribute  to  the  memory  of  the  angel-mother 
who  would  be  sorely  missed  by  gentle  and 
simple  alike  for  many  a  day.  These  tears 
banished  the  momentary  bitterness  which  had 
touched  Christian's  heart  at  sight  of  Edith 


264  CARLOWRIE. 


Hamilton,  to  whom  they  still  attributed,  in- 
directly at  least,  their  woful  separation  from 
Elsie.  One  thing  Christian  earnestly  hoped, 
that  Miss  Hamilton  would  not  mention  Elsie's 
name,  lest  her  prudence  should  vanish,  and 
she  should  speak  out  of  the  fulness  and  the 
sorrow  of  her  heart. 

'  I  heard,  Christian,  how  nobly  you  gave  up 
your  own  happiness  to  fill  your  mother's  place,' 
said  Miss  Hamilton  gently.  '  It  was  most 
unselfish.' 

'  Not  so  very  unselfish,  Miss  Hamilton/  said 
Christian,  with  a  slight  smile.  '  It  was  no  trial 
to  me  to  live  on  in  Lintlaw, — with  my  father 
and  the  rest.  I  love  them  and  they  love  me, 
so  it  is  happiness  for  us  all  to  be  together.' 

'  That  is  a  nice  way  to  put  it,  Christian ; 
nevertheless,  if  you  are  like  other  women,  it 
must  have  been  a  trial.  And  how  is  your 
brother  at  Carlowrie  ?  ' 

'  He  is  well,  thank  you,  Miss  Hamilton/ 
replied  Christian  very  low,  and  again  turned 
her  face  away,  knowing  it  was  coming  now. 

'  Poor  fellow,  it  must  have  been  hard  for  him 
to  give  up  all  thought  of  Elsie.  Of  course 
you  hear  often  from  her  ? ' 


DEAR  LINTLAW  AGAIN.  265 

'  Can  you  tell  me  anything  about  Elsie,  Miss 
Hamilton  ? '  asked  Christian.  '  We  heard 
that  she  was  to  be  married  in  the  summer  to 
the  Laird  of  Traquair.' 

'  Oh,  you  have  heard  that  rumour,  Christian  ? 
Yes,  I  can  confirm  it.  We  have  just  returned 
from  Castle-Orde,  and  the  day  before  we  left 
we  called  at  Traquair,  and  heard  from  Miss 
Traquair  that  Elsie  is  well  and  happy,  and  de- 
voted to  her  grandmother.  And  from  what 
she  added,  I  gathered  that  it  was  likely  she  will 
make  her  home  at  Traquair  in  the  autumn.' 

Christian's  face  was  turned  away  again,  for 
not  until  to-day  had  all  faith  in  Elsie  been 
quenched  in  her  heart.  For  Hew's  sake  she 
had  hoped  on  even  against  hope,  but  all  that 
was  over  now,  and  Elsie,  in  the  new  and  in- 
creased grandeur  of  her  wedded  life,  would 
be  further  than  ever  removed  from  Lintlaw. 

'  God  give  her  happiness  in  her  new  life, 
Miss  Hamilton,'  she  managed  to  say  at  last, 
for  it  would  not  do  to  show  Miss  Hamilton 
what  a  blow  this  was.  '  Tell  me  one  thing 
more.  Is  the  Laird  of  Traquair  a  man  who 
will  make  her  happy  ? ' 

'  I  should  think  so.  Every  one  thinks  well 
23 


266  CARLOWRIE. 


of  him,  and  my  uncle,  Sir  James  Graham- 
Orde,  is  always  singing  his  praises.  And  he 
is  so  handsome  and  noble-looking,  like  all  the 
Traquairs.  He  is  indeed  worthy  of  our  sweet 
Elsie,'  said  Miss  Hamilton  warmly. 

1  Will  you  be  seeing  Elsie  before  the  wed- 
ding, Miss  Hamilton?' 

'  I  do  not  know ;  but  we  certainly  shall  see 
her  immediately  after  her  home-coming,  as  we 
are  going  back  to  Castle-Orde  in  the  autumn.' 

1  Then  you  will  tell  her  what  good  wishes 
follow  her  from  Lintlaw,  Miss  Hamilton,'  said 
Christian  quietly.  *  Now,  won't  you  come  in, 
and  take  a  drink  of  milk  and  a  bit  scone  as 
you  used  to  do  ? ' 

'  Not  to-day,  thank  you,  Christian.  I  must 
be  going  ;  Macpherson  is  waiting  for  me  down 
at  the  pond.  But  stay,  tell  me, — I  am  so  in- 
terested in  everything  that  concerns  you, — 
is  it  true  that  your  brother  is  to  marry  Mr. 
Gray's  daughter  at  Southside  ? ' 

Christian  laughed. 

'  Dinna  believe  a'  ye  hear,  Miss  Hamilton. 
Mony  besides  Katie  Gray  hae  been  spoken 
of  as  mistress  o'  Carlowrie,'  she  replied,  and 
would  give  her  curious  questioner  no  more 


DEAR  LINTLA  W  AGAIN.  267 

satisfaction  than  that.  She  was  rather  impatient 
to-day  of  Miss  Hamilton's  talk  of  their  affairs  ; 
she  had  not  yet  learned  all  her  mother's  gentle- 
ness and  forbearance.  So  Miss  Hamilton 
went  away,  and  when  she  got  home  she  sat 
down  and  wrote  a  letter  to  Marjorie  Traquair. 
She  would  have  written  to  Elsie  if  she  had 
known  her  address. 

'When  you  write  to  Elsie  Beatoun,  dear 
Miss  Traquair,'  she  wrote,  '  tell  her  I  have 
seen  all  her  old  friends  at  Lintlaw,  and  that 
they  are  well,  and  asking  kindly  for  her. 
Also  tell  her  that  I  hear  the  rumour,  which  is 
sure  to  be  true  enough,  that  Hew  Dairy mple 
is  to  be  married  by  and  by  to  Katie  Gray  of 
Southside.  Nothing  but  marrying  and  giving 
in  marriage,  Miss  Traquair.  When  will  our 
time  come  ? ' 

Marjorie  Traquair  did  not  fail  faithfully  to 
remit  Miss  Hamilton's  words  in  her  next 
letter  to  Elsie.  So  Edith  Hamilton's  idle 
imagination  and  foolish  meddling  with  the 
affairs  of  others,  added  yet  another  pain  to 
Elsie's  sore  heart,  and  made  more  hopeless 
the  web  of  misunderstanding  and  estrange- 
ment which  lay  between  her  and  Lintlaw. 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 


LADY    ANNES    WILL. 

SEPTEMBER  was  wearing  to  a  close. 
Harvest  was  past  in  the  sheltered 
and  peaceful  lands  which  surrounded 
Lyndon  Priory.  The  leaves  were  golden  and 
russet- brown  on  the  oaks  in  the  park,  and 
they  were  beginning  to  fall  noiselessly,  for 
the  year  was  past  its  prime.  Without,  there 
were  signs  of  decay  and  approaching  death, 
and  within,  a  human  life  was  coming  very 
near  its  end.  The  days  of  the  Lady  Anne 
Traquair  on  earth  were  numbered.  She  lay 
in  her  bed  in  her  magnificent  chamber,  for  the 
most  part  unconscious  of  what  was  passing 
around  her.  Ay,  her  life  was  nearing  to  its 
end,  and  as  yet  her  dreams  were  all  unful- 
filled ;  the  ambition  for  which  she  had  laid 

HI 


LADY  ANNE'S  WILL.  269 

upon  her  conscience  a  heavy  sin  had  not  been 
realized.  Elsie  ministered  with  unceasing  care 
and  tenderness  by  her  bed, — a  pale,  fragile- 
looking  figure,  with  languid  step  and  lustreless 
eye,  who  looked  as  if  she  too  would  very  soon 
lie  upon  a  sickbed.  This  strange,  desolate 
life,  coupled  with  the  agony  of  her  heart- 
sickness  and  her  unutterable  yearning  for 
home,  was  killing  Elsie  Beatoun,  and  her 
grandmother  knew  it  well.  I  could  not  write 
down  all  that  was  in  the  mind  of  the  Lady 
Anne  during  these  last  days,  when  she  became 
conscious  that  earth  and  earthly  things  were 
slipping  away  from  her.  The  indomitable 
pride  which  had  upheld  her  in  the  past  had 
not  failed  her  yet,  and  there  was  still  sufficient 
strength  of  will  to  enable  her  to  crush  down 
any  softer  impulse  which  would  at  times  steal 
into  her  heart.  Before  the  Lady  Anne  was 
finally  laid  aside,  she  had  set  her  house  in 
order.  Her  London  lawyers  had  come  to  the 
Priory,  and  Mr.  Ketterly,  the  attorney  from 
the  neighbouring  town  of  Alchester,  was  sent 
for  frequently.  Evidently  she  was  determined 
that  there  should  be  no  confusion,  no  doubt 
or  trouble  concerning  her  affairs  after  she 


270  CARLOWRIE. 


was  gone.  But  now  everything  was  in  order, 
nothing  had  been  forgotten  or  left  to  a  more 
convenient  season ;  so  she  frequently  said. 
But  what  of  the  affairs  of  the  next  world  ? 
What  of  the  dread  unknown,  the  unfathomed 
mystery  of  that  which  was  to  come  ? 

On  a  grey,  still,  cheerless  afternoon,  Elsie 
was  sitting  by  her  grandmother's  bedside  with 
a  book  on  her  knee,  watching  while  she  slept. 
For  a  long  time  there  had  been  no  sound  in 
the  quiet  room  but  the  breathing  of  the 
sleeper,  and  the  low,  steady  tick  of  the  Lady 
Anne's  watch  on  the  dressing-table.  By  and 
by,  however,  Lady  Anne  stirred,  and  fixed 
her  hollow  eyes  on  her  grand-daughter's  face. 

'  You  are  there,  Elsie  ? ' 

*  Yes,  grandmother,  always  here  when  you 
want  me,'  replied  Elsie,  with  an  infinite  gentle- 
ness,— the  same  womanly  tenderness,  with 
which  in  long  gone  days  she  had  ministered 
to  poor  Saunders  Beatoun  at  Carlowrie,  was 
called  into  play  now ;  only  there  was  a  deep 
pathos  in  it  which  was  lacking  then.  Ay, 
Elsie  had  passed  through  the  deeps  since  old 
Carlowrie  days,  and  lived  a  very  lifetime  of 
sorrow ! 


LADY  ANNE'S  WILL.  271 

4  Where  is  Deborah  Conroy,  Elsie  ?  ' 

4  Down-stairs,  grandmother.  Do  you  want 
her?' 

'No,  no ;  it  is  you  I  want.  Have  you 
written  to  Howard  and  Marjorie  yet  ?  Is  it 
in  Paris  they  are  ?  How  long  will  it  be 
before  they  can  be  here  ? ' 

4  Only  a  few  days,  grandmother,'  answered 
Elsie  soothingly,  for  the  Lady  Anne  spoke 
with  feverish  impatience.  '  My  letter  will 
have  reached  them,  and  probably  by  this 
time  they  are  on  their  way.' 

4  That  is  well ;  I  wish  they  would  come 
before  the  end.  I  have  some  things  to  say 
to  Howard.' 

4  Yes,  grandmother,  I  told  him  that,  and  I 
am  sure  they  will  come  as  quickly  as  they 
can.  Do  you  feel  weaker  to-day  ? ' 

4 1  am  dying,  Elsie,'  replied  the  Lady  Anne, 
with  a  strange  calm,  which  impressed  Elsie 
with  a  kind  of  dread. 

'  You  are  perfectly  happy  and  at  peace, 
grandmother  ? '  she  said  timidly.  '  Heaven  is 
a  happier  home  than  this.' 

4  Child,  at  your  age  earth  should  be  fairer 
than  heaven.  It  is  only  old  age,  borne  down 


272  CARLOWRIE. 


with  many  sorrows  and  cares,  which  longs  to 
be  at  rest.  Tell  me,  are  you  still  nursing  in 
your  breast  a  hopeless  passion  ?  and  is  the 
true  love  of  Howard  Traquair  to  go  unre- 
warded ? ' 

4 1  am  done  with  love,  grandmother,'  replied 
Elsie,  striving  to  speak  very  quietly,  though 
her  heart  was  throbbing  with  rebellious  pain. 

'  That  is  a  foolish  way  to  talk,'  said  the 
Lady  Anne,  with  severity.  '  What  is  to  be- 
come of  you  when  I  am  gone  ? ' 

'  I  don't  know,  grandmother ;  God  will  open 
up  my  way,  and  there  will  be  a  home  pro- 
vided, I  have  no  fear,'  replied  Elsie  bravely ; 
but  suddenly  her  composure  gave  way,  and 
she  buried  her  face  upon  the  coverlet,  sobbing 
bitterly.  She  was  desolate  indeed. 

'  Hush !  my  child,  I  cannot  bear  to  see  you 
weep,'  said  the  Lady  Anne.  '  The  Priory 
will  be  your  home,  and  Deborah  Conroy  can 
remain  with  you  without  being  a  burden  upon 
you,  for  she  will  have  her  own  income  to 
support  her.  And  perhaps  some  day  you  will 
change  towards  Howard  Traquair.' 

4  Dear  grandmother,  you  are  kind  and 
thoughtful,  and  I  am  heedless  of  your  weak- 


LADY  ANNE'S  WILL.  273 

ness ;  forgive  me/  said  Elsie ;  and,  drying 
her  tears,  she  rose  to  administer  a  stimulant 
to  the  feeble  sufferer. 

'  Elsie,'  said  the  sick  woman,  fixing  hollow, 
wistful  eyes  upon  her  as  she  bent  over  her 
with  the  cordial  in  her  hand,  '  you  believe 
I  love  you,  that  I  would  do  anything  to 
further  your  happiness  ?  ' 

'  Dear  grandmother,  have  I  not  proved  it  ? ' 
asked  Elsie  simply  and  lovingly. 

'  And  after  I  am  gone,  Elsie,  promise  me  you 
will  think  kindly  of  me,  and  whatever  tran- 
spires, you  will  try  to  believe  that  all  I  did 
was  out  of  love  for  you,  from  a  great  desire 
for  your  welfare,'  said  the  Lady  Anne,  with  a 
strange  eagerness. 

'  Dear  grandmother,  what  strange  things 
are  these  you  say  ?  Do  I  not  love  you  ?  Do 
I  not  know  how  you  have  loved  and  cared 
for  me,  and  borne  with  my  weakness  and  my 
repinings  with  gentleness  so  long  ? '  queried 
Elsie,  with  gentle  reproach. 

The  Lady  Anne  put  up  her  hand  as  if  to 
deprecate  her  words. 

'Hush!  hush!  you  do  not  know.  But 
kiss  me,  Elsie.  You  have  been  a  good 


274  CARLOWRIE. 


and  dutiful  child,  an  unspeakable  comfort  to 
me.  I  am  weary  now,  and  would  sleep; 
later — to-morrow,  perhaps — I  shall  tell  you; 
yes,  all/ 

So  saying,  the  Lady  Anne  turned  drowsily 
upon  her  pillow  and  closed  her  eyes.  Elsie 
stood  silently  by  the  bed  until  the  quiet, 
regular  breathing  indicated  that  her  grand- 
mother was  asleep,  then  she  stole  softly 
down-stairs  to  ask  Deborah  Conroy  to  come 
and  sit  by  the  sickbed,  while  she  took  a 
few  hours'  rest  She  did  not  undress,  but, 
simply  throwing  off  her  outer  garments, 
wrapped  a  rug  round  her,  and  lay  down 
on  the  couch  in  her  dressing-room.  She 
was  very  weary,  and  fell  asleep  at  once. 
Shortly  after  sunset  she  was  awakened  by 
a  maid  hurriedly  entering  the  room. 

4  Miss  Beatoun,  will  you  come  up-stairs, 
please  ?  Miss  Conroy  sent  me.  Lady  Tra- 
quair  is — is ' — 

'  Not  dead,  Isabella  ? '  asked  Elsie,  spring- 
ing to  her  feet  in  affright 

*  No,  ma'am,  but  coming  very  near  the  end. 
Oh,  make  haste,  she  is  calling  for  you.' 

Half-dressed  as  she  was,  and  with  her  hair 


LADY  ANNE'S  WILL.  275 

streaming  about  her  shoulders,  Elsie  ran  to 
her  grandmother's  room.  She  was  stopped 
on  the  threshold  by  the  sight  of  Deborah 
Conroy,  who  held  up  a  warning  finger,  and 
there  were  tears  on  her  poor,  thin  cheeks. 
Elsie  stole  softly  across  the  floor,  and  took 
one  look  at  the  face  of  her  grandmother.  It 
was  enough ;  for  though  it  was  long  since  she 
had  last  seen  death  that  memorable  Sabbath 
morning  at  Carlowrie,  she  was  not  deceived. 
Ay,  the  long  struggle  was  over  now ;  the  sad, 
proud,  embittered  life  closed  for  ever.;  and  the 
Lady  Anne  had  gone  to  render  her  account 
above. 

4  Oh,  Deborah,  why  did  you  not  call  me 
sooner  ? '  cried  Elsie,  in  tones  of  anguish. 

'  I  could  not,  dear ;  it  is  not  five  minutes 
gone  since  Anne  awoke  out  of  her  sleep,  and 
cried  out,  "  Elsie,  Elsie,  forgive ! "  then  she  just 
sank  back  and  expired,'  replied  poor  Deborah 
Conroy,  wringing  her  hands  helplessly,  for 
what  was  to  become  of  her  and  of  the  Priory 
without  the  guiding  of  that  strong  mind  and 
will  ? 

'  Poor  grandmother !'  said  Elsie  tenderly  and 
sadly,  and,  bending  down,  kissed  with  loving 


276  CARLOWR1E. 


lips  the  pain-lined  brow.  Then,  leaving  the 
others  to  perform  the  last  sad  offices,  she 
stole  away  back  to  her  room  to  weep  in 
solitude,  for  she  indeed  felt  as  if  all  she 
loved  on  earth  were  taken  away  from  her 
now.  No,  not  yet;  for  Howard  and  Mar- 
jorie  were  left.  While  they  lived  she  would 
not  be  utterly  friendless,  and  her  heart  went 
out  to  them  in  a  rush  of  yearning  love. 

Strange  and  sad  and  still  fell  that  chill 
September  night  upon  Lyndon  Priory.  De- 
borah Conroy  and  Elsie  sat  together  by  the 
dining-room  fire,  talking  low  and  softly  of  the 
dead.  There  was  nothing  but  tenderness  in 
their  thoughts  of  her,  and  even  Deborah 
Conroy's  memories  of  her  kinswoman  were 
softened  by  the  strange,  sad  thought  that 
she  was  gone  away  from  Lyndon  for  ever- 
more. 

They  retired  to  rest  early,  and  both  slept, 
for  they  were  worn  out  with  their  long  and 
anxious  vigil. 

All  the  next  day  Elsie  kept  watch  at  the 
front  windows  for  the  coming  of  Howard  and 
Marjorie ;  but  the  early  darkness  fell,  windows 
were  shut  in  and  lamps  lighted  at  the  Priory, 


LADY  ANNE'S  WILL.  277 

yet  there  were  no  signs  of  their  arrival.  So 
Elsie  had  just  to  settle  down  by  the  fireside 
with  Deborah  Conroy,  and  hope  they  would 
come  to-morrow.  About  seven  o'clock,  how- 
ever, there  came  a  loud  knocking  at  the  hall 
door,  and  Elsie,  hearing  Howard's  voice,  flew 
to  meet  him.  Oh,  what  strength  and  comfort 
seemed  to  come  to  her  at  sight  of  his  true 
face !  She  clung  to  his  hands,  and  then 
buried  her  face  upon  them  ;  and  he  felt  her 
hot  tears  dropping,  and  had  great  difficulty 
in  restraining  his  impulse  to  clasp  her  to  his 
heart. 

'  Dear,  dear  Howard,  how  good  it  is  to  see 
you ! '  she  said,  with  all  the  wistful  simplicity 
of  a  child.  '  But  you  are  alone.  Where  is 
Marjorie  ? ' 

'  She  was  too  much  fatigued,  dear,  to  come 
down  to-night.  We  only  arrived  in  London  this 
afternoon,  after  travelling  night  and  day.  But 
she  will  come  to-morrow,'  said  Howard  gently, 
and  turned  to  greet  courteously  Deborah  Con- 
roy, who  had  followed  Elsie  out  to  the  hall. 

After  Howard  had  changed  his  travel- 
stained  garments  and  partaken  of  some 
refreshment,  he  went  away  up  alone  to  the 


278  CARLOWKIE. 


chamber  of  death.  But  Elsie  followed,  and 
stole  softly  in  behind  him,  and  he  almost 
started  to  find  her  standing  beside  him  at 
the  bed. 

'Poor  Aunt  Anne!'  said  Howard,  and 
folded  back  with  reverent  hand  the  covering 
from  the  face.  So  peaceful  was  that  face,  that, 
looking  upon  it,  great  rest  seemed  to  steal 
over  Elsie's  heart.  The  pain-lines  were  gone, 
the  anxious,  fretful  expression  smoothed  away, 
and  there  had  stolen  back  something  of  the 
beauty  which  had  been  so  rare  in  early  youth. 

'The  face  is  sweeter  in  death  than  it  was 
in  life,1  said  Howard  musingly.  '  Tell  me 
how  she  died.' 

Briefly  and  brokenly  Elsie  told  him  of  the 
hastened  end  ;  then  they  talked  low  and  softly 
of  the  dead,  only  remembering  her  at  her  best, 
so  swiftly  and  beautifully  does  death  still  all 
harsher  thoughts,  and  soften  what  in  life  was 
so  rugged  and  unpleasant  and  hard  to  bear. 

'  Dear  grandmother !  she  was  ever  kind  and 
loving  to  me.  I  shall  never  forget  her,'  said 
Elsie,  and,  bending  once  more,  kissed  the 
marble  brow.  '  Howard,  let  us  go.' 

There  was  no  mention  made  that  night  of 


LADY  ANNE'S  WILL.  279 

any  plans  for  the  future,  though  they  were 
much  in  the  mind  of  Howard  Traquair. 

Early  on  the  morrow,  Mr.  Ketterly,  the 
attorney  from  Alchester,  came  to  the  Priory, 
and  had  an  interview  with  Elsie,  at  which 
Howard  was  present.  He  seemed  a  little 
nervous  and  embarrassed,  and,  though  he  had 
some  formidable  documents  with  him,  appeared 
in  no  hurry  to  open  them. 

'  Did  Lady  Traquair  make  any  allusion  to 
the  state  of  her  affairs — to  the  manner  in 
which  her  bequests  were  made  —  in  your 
hearing,  Miss  Beatoun?'  he  asked,  rubbing 
his  spectacles  with  his  silk  handkerchief. 

*  Only  one  remark,  Mr.  Ketterly ;  she  said 
that  the  Priory  was  to  be  mine,'  replied  Elsie 
reluctantly,  for  she  could  not  bear  to  discuss 
such  things  in  the  first  keenness  of  her  sorrow. 

'  Just  so.  Did  she  make  you  aware  that 
it  was  left  only  conditionally?'  pursued  Mr. 
Ketterly. 

'  No,  that  was  all/  answered  Elsie. 

Then  the  lawyer  folded  out  the  paper  and 
cleared  his  throat. 

4  Some  weeks  ago,  as  you  are  aware,  her 
ladyship  sent  for  me  for  the  purpose  of  making 


2So  CARLOWRIE. 


some  change  in  the  will  I  drew  up  for  her 
early  in  the  year,'  he  began.  '  I  did  not 
think  the  change  she  contemplated  desirable, 
and  strongly  urged  her  ladyship  to  leave  the 
document  untouched.  But  it  was  useless.  I 
presume  you,  Miss  Beatoun,  and  you,  sir/  he 
added,  looking  at  Howard,  '  are  perfectly  well 
aware  that  Lady  Traquair's  commands  were 
not  to  be  disputed,  and  that  she  was  seldom 
turned  from  any  object  which  she  had  in  view?' 

He  paused  then,  for  Elsie  did  not  appear 
to  be  listening  to  him.  She  was  indeed  look- 
ing through  the  library  window  down  the  long 
avenue,  watching  for  the  carriage  which  was 
bringing  Marjorie  to  Lyndon. 

'  May  I  request  your  attention,  Miss 
Beatoun,  if  you  please  ? '  he  said  impressively ; 
and  Elsie  turned  with  a  start  and  sat  straight 
up  on  her  chair,  with  her  white,  delicate  hands 
folded  above  her  black  dress,  and  her  beautiful 
eyes  fixed  on  his  face.  That  look  of  child- 
like innocence  somewhat  discomposed  the 
hard-headed  man  of  business.  Involuntarily 
Howard  took  a  step  nearer  to  Elsie,  dreading 
what  was  coming.  The  lawyer,  noting  that, 
smiled  slightly,  and  appeared  reassured. 


LADY  ANNE'S  WILL.  281 

'  I  need  not  trouble  you  with  a  detailed 
reading  of  this  document,  which  might  only 
prove  wearisome  to  you,  Miss  Beatoun,'  he 
said.  '  I  will  simply  state  the  purport  of 
it,  which  is  that  the  lands  and  estate  of 
Lyndon  Priory  are  bequeathed  to  you  solely 
upon  the  condition  that  you  become  the 
wife  of  Mr.  Howard  Traquair.  Failing 
fulfilment  of  that  condition,  Lyndon  falls  to 
Miss  Marjorie  Traquair,  with  the  exception 
of  the  sum  of  two  hundred  pounds,  which 
will  be  paid  to  you  on  the  first  day  of 
January  of  every  year  while  you  live. 
You'— 

He  stopped  abruptly,  for  with  deep-flushed 
face,  and  wild,  indignant  eyes,  Elsie  sprang  to 
her  feet  and  rushed  from  the  room.  The  face 
of  Howard  Traquair  was  as  pale  as  death, 
and  set  in  righteous  anger. 

'  That  is  a  wicked  and  unjust  will,  Mr. 
Ketterly,'  he  said,  with  difficulty  controlling 
his  ire.  '  Must  it  stand  ? ' 

'  No  power  on  earth  can  set  it  aside.  See, 
it  bears  the  Lady  Anne's  legible  and  indisput- 
able signature  at  the  bottom  of  the  page,' 

replied  the  lawyer  courteously,  and  held  out 

24 


282  CARLOWRIE. 


the  paper,  but  Howard  only  turned  away  with 
.a  gesture  of  impatient  scorn. 

'  It  is  cruel  and  iniquitous  thus  to  oppress 
a  defenceless  girl  like  Miss  Beatoun,'  he  said 
bitterly.  '  God  forgive  me,  Mr.  Ketterly,  and 
grant  me  more  kindly  charity  towards  the  dead.' 

'As  I  already  stated,  I  did  my  utmost  to 
persuade  Lady  Traquair  that  a  will  so  worded 
might  only  cause  confusion  and  trouble.  But 
pardon  the  question — Was  her  ladyship  not 
aware  that  such  a  marriage  was  more  than 
likely  to  take  place  ? ' 

'No/  replied  Howard  briefly  and  sternly. 
'  You  have  lived  long  enough,  Mr.  Ketterly, 
to  know  that  coercion  is  not  the  best  way  to 
win  a  woman's  heart.  I  do  not  know  what  to 
say  or  do,  because  this  wretched  document 
will  destroy  the  pleasant,  unrestrained  relation- 
ship which  has  hitherto  existed  between  Miss 
Beatoun  and  my  sister  and  myself.' 

'  Mr.  Traquair,  there  is  another  clause  which 
I  had  no  time  to  read  to  Miss  Beatoun,  but 
which,  though  I  do  not  know  the  circumstances 
to  which  it  alludes,  seems  more  cruel  and  un- 
just still,'  said  the  lawyer  in  a  troubled  voice. 
'  It  contains  her  ladyship's  last  prayer,  which 


LADY  ANNE'S  WILL.  283 

she  would  seek  to  make  binding  upon  her 
grand-daughter's  conscience  and  heart,  that 
she  will  not  return  to  those  with  whom  she 
dwelt  before  she  came  to  Lyndon,  and  that 
if  she  does  she  will  know  she  is  breaking  her 
grandmother's  last  wish  and  dying  prayer.' 

Dark,  dark  grew  the  brow  of  Howard 
Traquair. 

'  Mr.  Ketterly,'  he  said,  with  clear,  proud  de- 
cision, '  may  I  request  that  that  clause  be  kept 
entirely  from  the  knowledge  of  Miss  Beatoun  ? 
It  will  inflict  upon  her  needless  pain.  Let 
her  go  back  to  those  early  friends,  whom 
she  loves,  untrammelled  by  any  such  haunting 
thought.  Will  you  grant  my  request  ?  ' 

'  Most  willingly.  I  deeply  sympathise  with 
Miss  Beatoun  and  with  you,'  was  the  lawyer's 
ready  and  kind  reply. 

Then  Howard  abruptly  quitted  the  room 
and  the  house.  His  mind  was  in  a  tumult  of 
pain  and  shame  and  justifiable  wrath.  For  now, 
if  ever  he  had  had  a  hope  of  winning  Elsie's 
love,  that  hope  was  dashed  to  the  ground. 

'  Cruel,  cruel ! '  he  muttered  to  himself  as  he 
strode  wrathfully  through  the  autumn  woods. 
'  Relentless  to  the  last  I ' 


CHAPTER    XIX. 


HOME. 


BOUT  an  hour  later  Marjorie  Traquair 
arrived  at  Lyndon  Priory.  She  was 
met  in  the  hall  by  Deborah  Conroy, 
who  said  that  Howard  and  Elsie  had  gone  out 
together.  Marjorie  laughed  good-humouredly, 
saying  they  might  have  waited  for  her,  then 
went  away  contentedly  up-stairs  to  remove  her 
travelling  garb.  Deborah  accompanied  her, 
and,  with  her  usual  minuteness  of  detail,  related 
all  that  had  transpired  at  the  Priory  during  the 
last  three  days.  But  of  what  had  transpired 
in  the  library  that  morning  she  was,  of  course, 
unaware. 

Marjorie  had  arrived  too  late  to  see  her 
aunt,  for  the  coffin  lid  had  been  screwed  down 
the  previous  night.  But,  after  she  was  rested 


HOME.  285 

and  refreshed,  she  went  to  the  darkened  room 
and  laid  upon  the  lid  the  wreath  she  had 
brought  with  her  from  London.  Then  she 
kissed  the  name  upon  the  silver  plate,  and 
stole  away,  a  little  saddened,  but  there  was 
no  great  grief  in  her  heart.  She  had  never 
loved  her  Aunt  Anne,  and  being  of  clearer, 
more  penetrating  vision  than  Elsie,  had  been 
oppressed  at  times  with  a  haunting,  indefinable 
distrust  of  the  haughty  mistress  of  the  Priory. 
She  had  spoken  of  it  frequently  to  Howard, 
and  both  had  compassionated  the  shrinking, 
sensitive  girl  whom  the  iron  will  had  so 
completely  under  control. 

Marjorie  roamed  over  the  house,  too  restless 
to  settle  at  anything,  and  finally  felt  herself 
drawn  by  some  strange  impulse  towards  the 
deserted  and  unused  picture  gallery.  She 
swung  back  the  folding-doors  and  entered 
noiselessly,  went  towards  the  window,  and 
threw  open  one  of  the  shutters.  Then  she 
started  to  hear  a  sound  of  sobbing  at  the  end 
of  the  room,  and,  looking  in  the  direction  from 
whence  it  proceeded,  beheld,  to  her  unspeak- 
able amazement,  the  figure  of  Elsie  lying  on 
one  of  the  crimson-covered  couches,  with  her 


286  CARLOWRIE. 


face  buried  in  the  pillows.  In  a  moment  she 
was  by  her  side. 

'  Elsie,  Elsie,  my  darling !  I  am  here,  my 
dear  love!  It  is  Marjorie,'  she  whispered 
lovingly,  marvelling  much  at  Elsie's  abandon- 
ment of  grief.  '  Don't  sob  so,  dear ;  you  will 
make  yourself  so  ill.' 

With  such  soothing  and  endearing  words 
did  Marjorie  try  to  comfort  Elsie,  until  she 
was  able  to  lift  her  head  and  look  calmly  into 
her  winsome  face.  The  sunshine  of  her 
presence,  the  magic  of  her  happy-hearted 
smile,  weaned  Elsie  away  from  her  brooding 
over  the  many  sorrows  of  her  life,  and  by  and 
by  Marjorie  coaxed  her  to  get  her  hat  and 
come  out  with  her  for  a  ramble  through  the 
autumn-tinted  woods. 

4  Who  do  you  think  we  saw  in  Paris,  Elsie  ? ' 
asked  Marjorie,  breaking  off  in  the  midst  of 
an  animated  description  of  the  gay  capital. 
'  Some  one  who  admires  you  very  much.' 

Elsie  shook  her  head. 

•  Unless  it  be  Edith  Hamilton,  I  don't 
know  who  it  could  be,  Marjorie.' 

'  It  was  Keith  Hamilton,  dear.  Such  fun  ! 
He  came  to  Castle-Orde, — his  sister  was  too 


HOME.  287 

poorly  to  accompany  him,  and,  finding  we 
were  away  for  a  trip  to  Paris,  he  came  off 
after  us.  I  believe  he  thought  you  were  of 
our  party,'  said  Marjorie,  with  a  sly  smile, 
which  provoked  an  answering  one  on  Elsie's 
pale  lips. 

'  Little  he  cared.  I  like  Keith  Hamilton, 
Marjorie.  He  was  very  kind  to  me.  If  he 
comes  to  Traquair,  don't  send  him  away/  she 
said  gently. 

An  exquisite  blush  sprang  to  Marjorie's 
rounded  cheek,  and  a  lovely  light  to  her 
eyes. 

'  When  Keith  comes  to  Traquair  again, 
Elsie,  and  I  think  it  will  not  be  long,'  she 
answered  simply,  '  I  will  remember  what  you 
said.' 

Then  Elsie,  understanding,  paused  in  the 
path,  and  kissed  Marjorie  with  a  long,  linger- 
ing kiss. 

'  God  bless  you,  Marjorie,  and  him ;  you 
are  worthy  of  each  other ! '  was  all  she  said, 
but  it  meant  a  great  deal.  Somehow  they 
did  not  talk  much  after  that,  and  by  and  by 
wended  their  way  through  the  cool,  sweet 
September  air  to  the  house.  Elsie  ran  up- 


288  CARLOIVKIE. 


stairs  at  once,  but  Marjorie,  hearing  her  brother 
was  in  the  library,  went  away  to  that  room  for 
a  word  with  him.  One  look  told  her  that  he 
was  thoroughly  out  of  sorts,  that  something 
had  happened  to  trouble  and  grieve  him  very 
much. 

'  I'm  glad  you've  come,  Marjorie,'  he  said, 
with  a  breath  of  relief,  for  the  very  sight  of 
her  was  like  the  shining  of  the  sun.  '  Sit 
down  till  I  tell  you  something  which  will  raise 
your  righteous  ire.' 

It  would  be  difficult  to  describe  the  varying 
expressions  which  crossed  the  face  of  Mar- 
jorie Traquair,  while  she  was  listening  to  her 
brother's  brief  recital  of  the  events  of  the 
morning.  When  he  was  done  she  sprang  to 
her  feet,  with  flushed  face  and  kindling  eyes. 

'  What  a  shame  !  Poor,  poor  Elsie  !  that  was 
the  cause  of  her  grief  to-day ! '  she  exclaimed. 
'  Let  me  say  it,  it  will  relieve  me.  Aunt  Anne 
is  an  old  wretch  ! '  she  added,  getting  out  the 
word  with  great  energy.  '  Yes,  I  know  it  is 
wrong  to  say  it  now  she  is  dead,  but  if  she 
had  been  alive  I  would  have  said  it  to  her. 
I  was  often  very  nearly  saying  that  or  some- 
thing worse  when  we  were  here.  Me  take  the 


HOME.  289 

Priory,  indeed !  Of  course  Elsie  knows  very 
well  it  is  hers  just  the  same  as  if  that  sinful 
thing  had  never  been  written.' 

'  But,  Marjorie,  unless  Elsie  becomes  my 
wife,  the  Priory  will  be  yours  even  against 
your  will.  Elsie  cannot  keep  it/  said  Howard 
moodily.  '  The  longer  one  thinks  of  it,  the 
worse  it  becomes,  I  do  declare.' 

'  If  Elsie  only  would  !  oh,  what  happiness 
for  us  all,  Howard !'  said  Marjorie,  with  eyes  full 
of  tears.  '  I  am  sure  she  would  be  happy  with 
you.  Do  you  think  that  perhaps  in  time  she ' — 

'  I*  dare  not  permit  myself  to  hope.  We 
will  not  speak  of  it  now,'  interrupted  Howard. 
1  Well,  Marjorie,  I  can't  stay  here.  The 
atmosphere  of  the  house  is  not  pleasant  to 
me.  Let  us  get  away  home  as  soon  after  to- 
morrow as  possible.' 

'  And  Elsie  ?  ' 

'  Will  go  with  us,  of  course.  You  will  ask 
her,  and  then  I  shall  assure  her,  as  .quietly  and 
earnestly  as  possible,  that  she  must  not  think 
any  more  about  that  wretched  thing,  and  that 
we  must  just  be  the  same  dear  friends,  brother 
and  sister,  if  she  will,  as  if  it  had  never  come 
into  existence.' 

25 


890  CARLOWRIE. 


4  Howard,  how  noble  you  are !  How  I  love 
and  honour  my  brother ! '  said  Marjorie  warmly ; 
and  Howard,  smiling  a  little  sadly,  drew  her 
to  him,  and  fondly  kissed  her  brow. 

'  Not  fonder  and  prouder  than  I  am  of 
my  little  sister,  my  sunbeam  ! '  he  said,  with 
an  earnestness  which  filled  Marjorie's  happy 
heart  to  overflowing.  Such  happy  natures 
gather  sunshine  everywhere,  and  cast  it  about 
them  as  they  go.  God  bless  them !  Like  the 
sunshine  and  the  flowers,  the  singing  birds 
and  every  other  beautiful  thing  in  nature,  they 
are  exquisite  exponents  of  His  love. 

In  the  afternoon,  Elsie  stole  down  to  the 
drawing-room  for  a  book  she  had  been  read- 
ing, but  upon  seeing  Howard  lying  on  a  couch 
there  she  would  have  at  once  retreated.  But 
Howard,  who  had  indeed  stationed  himself 
there  for  the  purpose  of  seeing  her,  sprang  to 
his  feet,  and  begged  her  to  come  in.  A  little 
ashamed  of  her  haste  to  escape,  Elsie  came 
forward  into  the  room,  but  with  apparent 
reluctance  and  embarrassment.  There  ap- 
peared to  be  truth  in  Howard's  prediction, 
that  the  Lady  Anne's  unjust  will  was  likely 
to  destroy  the  pleasant  relationship  which 


HOME.  291 

had  hitherto  existed  between  Elsie  and 
himself. 

'  Come  in,  Elsie ;  don't  look  so  askance 
at  me,'  he  said,  striving  to  speak  naturally. 
'  That  wretched  document  is  not  to  make  any 
difference  to  us,  I  hope  ?  Let  us  think  no 
more  of  it.  Nobody  but  Aunt  Anne  could 
possibly  have  made  such  a  will.  It  will  never 
trouble  me.  Let  me  hear  you  say  the  same.' 

A  faint  colour  stole  to  Elsie's  cheek,  and  a 
slight  smile  to  her  lips.  It  was  an  unspeak- 
able relief  to  her  to  feel  at  home  with  Howard 
again,  and  to  be  assured  that  he  would  never 
let  the  will  come  between  them.  She  had  not 
so  many  friends  now  that  she  could  afford 
to  let  such  as  Howard  Traquair  slip  away 
from  her. 

4  Thank  you,  Howard,'  she  said  very  gently. 
'  I  might  have  known,  but  I  could  not  help 
feeling  about  it  just  at  first.' 

'  Of  course  you  couldn't,'  said  Howard 
cheerily.  '  But  come,  let  me  see  that  all  that 
feeling  is  swept  away  by  promising  to  come 
with  Marjorie  and  me  to  Traquair  after  to- 
morrow is  over.' 

1  Marjorie  has  spoken  of  it  to  me.      Yes,  I 


29?  CARLOWRIE. 


will  come,  Howard,  and  thank  you  very  much. 
What  should  I  do  without  Marjorie  and  you 
now  f '  she  said,  with  fast  filling  eyes. 

'  And  we'll  have  jolly  times  at  Traquair,  I 
tell  you,'  said  Howard,  with  boyish  eagerness, 
to  hide  a  deeper  feeling.  '  And  we'll  all  be 
happy  together  as  the  day  is  long.' 

'  Marjorie  speaks  of  staying  some  days  in 
Edinburgh,  Howard.  You  would  not  mind 
very  much  if,  while  we  were  there,  I  went 
out  by  myself  to  where  I  used  to  live  before, 
just  to  speak  to  Aunt  Effie  ?  I  loved  and  do 
love  her  very  much.  I  would  just  like  to  tell 
her  that  I  have  not,  and  never  will,  forget 
them,'  said  Elsie  wistfully. 

'  My  dear,  you  shall  do  not  only  that,  but 
every  other  thing  on  which  you  set  your 
heart.  I  am  not  sure  but  that  if  you  contem- 
plated a  journey  to  the  moon,  Marjorie  and 
I  would  not  assist  you  to  carry  it  out,'  said 
Howard,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye.' 

Elsie  smiled  also.     How  could  she  help  it  ? 

'  I  shall  never  be  able  to  repay  all  your 
kindness,  dear  Howard,  but' — 

'  We  will  never  speak  of  it  again,'  supple- 
mented Howard.  '  And  if  you  grow  strong 


HOME.  293 

and  well  at  Traquair,  and  our  heather-scented 
mountain  air  brings  back  the  bloom  of  yore  to 
your  cheek,  I  shall  be  more  than  repaid,'  was 
Howard's  answer;  and,  with  a  heart  strangely 
at  rest,  Elsie  stole  away.  The  tumult  was 
over  now  ;  and  though  a  certain  lingering  sad- 
ness must  ever  remain  in  her  heart  because 
of  what  was  and  what  might  have  been,  she 
saw  stretching  out  before  her  a  life  of  peace 
and  quiet  happiness  which  might  in  time 
suffice. 

On  the  morrow,  the  oaken  casket  which 
contained  all  that  remained  of  the  Lady  Anne 
Traquair  was  laid  in  the  vault  of  Lyndon 
Priory.  It  had  been  her  expressed  desire 
that  her  body  should  not  be  carried  to  Scot- 
land, but  should  be  laid  to  rest  among  her 
own  people.  Strange  that,  though  she  had 
loved  her  husband  so  well,  and  so  faithfully 
mourned  his  loss,  she  should  not  care  to  sleep 
beside  him  in  death.  It  was  but  another 
whim  of  that  strange,  unfathomable  nature, 
which  seemed  to  take  pride  in  its  strong 
individuality. ' 

On  the  succeeding  morrow,    Howard   and 
Marjorie,    with    Elsie    in    their  care,    left  the 


294  CARLOWRIE. 


Priory.  All  were  glad  to  go ;  the  brother  and 
sister  because  their  hearts  were  at  Traquair, 
and  Elsie  because  Lyndon  Priory  had  been 
a  species  of  prison-house  to  her,  where  she 
had  been  held  in  bondage,  which,  though 
sweetened  by  love  and  generous  kindness,  was 
bondage  still.  Between  age  and  youth  there 
is  little  in  common,  and  the  heart  of  Lady 
Anne  and  that  of  Elsie  Beatoun,  in  its  pure 
and  high-souled  innocence,  were  as  far  apart 
as  earth  from  heaven.  The  house  was  left 
in  the  care  of  Elizabeth  Ritchie.  Her  mis- 
tress had  left  her  amply  provided  for,  and  a 
charge  like  the  keeping  of  the  Priory  during 
the  absence  of  the  young  mistress  was  one 
after  her  own  heart.  Seeing  them  all  depart 
so  happily  together,  there  was  no  doubt  in 
her  mind  that  Miss  Elsie  would .  ere  long 
become  Lady  of  Traquair,  and  that  in  all 
probability  the  Priory  would  only  see  her  for 
a  few  weeks  or  months  in  the  year.  That 
was  a  very  pleasant  thought  to  the  soul  of 
Betsy  Ritchie. 

The  journey  to  Scotland  was  singularly 
pleasant.  Howard  secured  a  compartment  for 
their  own  use,  and  everything  was  provided 


HOME.  295 

for  the  comfort  and  ease  of  the  ladies.  They 
travelled  by  the  East  Coast  Route,  so  that 
Elsie  was  spared  passing  through  any  of  the 
familiar  scenes  of  her  youth.  But  when  the 
carriage  awaiting  them  at  the  station  rolled 
swiftly  along  the  wide,  beautiful  thoroughfare 
of  Princes  Street,  Elsie's  heart  was  stirred 
with  wild,  unutterable  yearnings,  with  un- 
dying memories  of  the  past.  On  a  memorable 
summer  day,  three  years  ago,  when  Hew  and 
Christian  and  she  had  spent  a  holiday  in  the 
city,  they  had  walked  through  the  gardens, 
and  then  back  on  the  other  side  of  the  street, 
and  there  was  the  very  jeweller's  window 
where  they  had  paused  to  look  in  and  admire 
the  gold  and  pebble  ornaments,  and  to  point 
out  in  jest  what  each  would  wear  upon  her 
wedding  day.  Howard  and  Marjorie,  under- 
standing something  of  her  thoughts,  did  not 
disturb  her  or  speak  to  her  at  all. 

'  You  are  glad  to  be  in  Scotland  again, 
Elsie  ? '  Howard  said,  as  he  assisted  her  to 
alight  at  the  door  of  the  hotel. 

'  Yes,  yes ;  Scotland  is  home  to  me.  At 
Lyndon  I  was  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land. 
In  dear  Scotland  everybody  is  free,'  she 


296  CARLOWRIE. 


answered,  with  a  smile  and  a  tear,  which  told 
that  the  words  came  from  the  very  heart. 
After  dinner  they  had  a  long  drive  round 
Arthur's  Seat,  and  Marjorie  was  rapturous 
over  the  beauties  of  Edinburgh.  But  Elsie 
was  absorbed  and  restless,  and  could  not 
admire  anything,  so  full  was  her  heart  and 
thoughts  of  what  was  coming  on  the  morrow. 
She  had  planned  to  go  by  an  early  train,  and 
return  in  the  evening ;  but  when  the  morning 
came,  it  brought  a  strange,  inexplicable  reluct- 
znce,  and  she  allowed  the  forenoon  to  slip 
away.  But  Howard  took  her  to  the  station 
in  time  for  the  afternoon  train.  She  took 
ticket  for  a  little  station  a  mile  beyond  Gore- 
bridge,  not  caring  that  the  villagers  should 
recognise  her.  From  this  little  station  she 

o 

could  walk  through  the  fields  to  Lintlaw,  a 
shorter  and  pleasanter  way  than  the  toilsome 
ascent  from  Gorebridge. 

*  I  will  be  home  to-morrow,  Howard,'  she 
said,  '  unless  Aunt  Effie  wants  me  to  stay 
another  day,  and  then  I  shall  write.' 

'  All  right.  I  hope  you  will  have  a  safe 
and  pleasant  journey,  dear,  and  find  a  warm 
welcome  among  your  old  friends.  Take  care 


HOME.  297 

of  yourself,  Elsie ;  I  shall  not  be  easy  in  my 
mind  till  I  see  you  again.' 

'  Oh,  I  shall  be  all  right,  never  fear.  This 
is  a  familiar  line,  a  familiar  train  to  me.  You 
know  I  have  often  made  this  journey,  and 
it  is  not  far/  she  replied  cheerfully.  '  Good- 
bye.' 

The  train  steamed  out  of  the  station,  and 
Elsie  sank  back  in  her  corner,  for  many  strange 
memories  thronged  about  her  heart.  What 
feelings  were  hers  as  she  was  hurried  through 
the  familiar  landscape  !  Past  Portobello,  with 
its  blue  line  of  shimmering  sea ;  then  the  neat, 
picturesque  station  at  Eskbank  ;  and  thence  on 
to  her  destination.  At  Gorebridge  she  dared 
not  look  out,  lest  she  should  see  any  familiar 
faces.  She  was  now  becoming  nervous  and 
excited,  and  could  scarcely  keep  still  her 
trembling  hands.  How,  oh  how  would  they 
receive  her  ?  she  wondered.  Would  they  let 
her  in,  or  would  she  find  herself  forgotten,  and 
cast  out  of  their  hearts  for  ever  ?  Her  hope 
centred  in  her  aunt.  Christian  and  Hew,  of 
course,  would  be  both  settled  in  their  own 
homes ;  but  so  long  as  Aunt  Effie  dwelt 
beneath  the  roof-tree  of  Lintlaw,  it  was  home 


298  CARLO  WR1E. 


to  her.  The  sun  was  shining  with  that  clear, 
still  brightness  peculiar  to  October,  when  she 
left  the  train  and  took  her  way  by  the  familiar 
field  -  paths  to  Lintlaw.  It  was  the  same 
peaceful  landscape,  unchanged,  beautiful  as  of 
yore.  Yonder  the  grey  battlements  of  Borth- 
wick,  the  little  church,  the  school,  and  Mr. 
Macdougall's  house,  where  she  and  Christian 
had  often  drank  tea  in  summer  days  gone  by. 
Were  they  there  still,  she  wondered,  and  did 
they  ever  talk  of  her  ?  Presently  she  left 
behind  the  hill  from  whence  Borthwick  could 
be  seen,  and  now  the  dearest,  most  familiar 
scenes  of  all  were  before  her  view. 

Harvest  was  all  in-gathered,  and  the  fields 
were  bare  and  desolate,  save  where  the  earth 
had  been  upturned  by  the  plough,  and  showed 
in  rich  brown  furrows  against  the  stubble. 
The  leaves  were  red  and  yellow  on  the  trees, 
for  it  had  been  a  late  spring,  and  there  had 
been  no  wild  winds  yet  to  whirl  the  late  foliage 
to  the  ground.  In  the  autumn-tinted  hedge- 
rows the  bramble  was  black  upon  the  boughs, 
and  there  were  rowans  still  and  crab-apples 
where  they  were  wont  to  be,  ripe  on  the  trees 
which  divided  the  lands  of  Lintlaw  from  those 


HOME.  299 

of  the  Mount.  With  a  heart  well  nigh  burst- 
ing, Elsie  climbed  the  stile  into  the  wood,  and 
walked  with  trembling  feet  down  the  moss- 
grown  path.  When  she  reached  the  open 
gate  which  led  directly  into  the  field  at  the 
back  of  Lintlaw,  she  stood  still,  and,  leaning 
against  a  tree,  tried  to  summon  up  that  calm- 
ness and  courage  which  were  necessary  to 
enable  her  to  go  on.  The  stackyard  was  very 
full,  three-and-thirty  stacks  Elsie  mechanically 
counted,  and  recalled  that  there  had  been  but 
eight  -  and  -  twenty  the  last  harvest  she  had 
witnessed  at  Lintlaw.  Evidently  this  had 
been  a  prosperous  year  for  Lothian  farmers. 
The  full  stackyard  somewhat  obscured  the 
steading,  still  she  could  see  the  long  red-tiled 
roof  of  the  barn,  and  beyond,  the  gables  of  the 
house  itself,  from  which  two  blue  wreaths  of 
smoke  were  curling  upward  to  the  calm,  bright 
sky. 

In  the  field  she  must  pass  on  her  way  down 
to  the  farm,  there  was  a  great  band  of  men 
and  women  digging  and  gathering  the  pota- 
toes, and  she  could  hear  the  echo  of  their 
voices  and  laughter,  which  told  that  tongues 
were  as  busy  as  their  hands.  Mr.  Dairy mple 


300  CARLOWRIE. 


was  not  among  them ;  but,  coming  up  behind 
the  band,  '  gaffering '  them,  was  a  big  strap- 
ping lad,  whose  bronzed  face  under  his  broad 
straw  hat  bore  a  striking  resemblance  to  Sandy. 

They  were  working  down  the  drill,  so  Elsie 
waited  till  they  had  turned  again,  and  were 
well  across  the  field,  before  she  emerged  from 
her  shelter.  Then  she  put  up  her  sunshade, 
and  walked  very  quickly  down  the  rough,  un- 
even road.  None  of  them  recognised  her. 

She  went  straight  through  the  big  door  into 
the  yard  at  the  back  of  the  house,  and  saw 
there  a  strange  woman,  attired  in  the  garb  of 
an  out-worker,  scattering  corn  for  the  hens. 
The  woman  stared  at  her,  but  Elsie  passed 
on  and  through  a  little  door  past  the  gig- 
house,  and  round  to  the  front.  And  there 
was  Davie  squatted  on  the  grass,  Rover  lazily 
blinking  beside  him,  and  a  lot  of  tools  and  bits 
of  iron  scattered  about,  with  which  he  was 
working  at  his  beloved  machines.  At  the 
sound  of  footsteps  he  looked  up,  and  then 
sprang  to  his  feet.  There  was  something 
strangely  familiar  in  that  slender  figure,  with 
its  flowing  black  robes,  in  that  sweet,  pale  face, 
and  in  a  moment  the  truth  came  home  to 


HOME.  301 

Davie,  and  he  ran  shouting  into  the  house, 
'  Faither,  faither,  here's  Elsie !  Come  oot  an' 
see  ;  Elsie's  corned  hame  ! '  she  heard  him  cry, 
and  even  in  that  moment  of  supreme  feeling  she 
wondered  why  he  said  '  father  '  and  not  mother. 

Before  the  farmer  could  get  up  from  his 
chair  (it  was  just  the  tea-time  at  Lintlaw), 
there  was  a  light  footfall  in  the  passage,  and  he 
saw  in  the  parlour  doorway  the  figure  of  Elsie. 

*  Guid  Lord,  Elsie,  is'tyou?'  he  exclaimed, 
looking  at  her  with  dumbfoundered  eyes. 

'  Yes,  yes,  it's  me,'  she  answered  brokenly, 
and  then  her  eyes  travelled  hungrily  round 
the  room,  for  the  house  felt  strange  and  deso- 
late and  empty, — she  could  not  tell  why. 

'  What  is  it  ?  Oh,  Uncle  Davie,  where  is 
Aunt  Effie  ? ' 

A  look  of  deep  surprise  swept  across  the 
rugged  face  of  David  Dairy mple.  He  passed 
his  hand  across  his  brow,  then  through  his 
grey  hair,  and  slowly  pointed  upward. 

'  Bairn,  did  ye  never  hear  ?  That's  a  strange 
question,'  he  said,  in  a  voice  like  the  shaking 
of  the  wind  among  the  firs.  ' "  The  Lord 
gave,  and  the  Lord  hath  taken  away ;  blessed 
be  the  name  of  the  Lord." ' 


CHAPTER  XX. 


CLEARING  AWAY  THE  MISTS. 

S  Aunt  Effie  dead,  Uncle  Davie?' 
asked  Elsie,  in  a  voiceless  whisper. 
'  That  is  surely  a  needless  ques- 
tion for  you  to  ask,  Elsie,'  said  Lintlaw,  with 
some  sternness.  '  There  was  news  o'  her 
death,  ay,  an*  mony  a  letter  sin  syne,  sent  to 
you  at  yer  braw  English  hame.' 

The  look  of  utter  bewilderment  upon  Elsie's 
face  deepened,  and  she  swayed  and  would 
have  fallen,  had  not  Lintlaw  caught  her  in  his 
arms.  She  clung  to  him,  and  hid  her  face 
on  his  broad  breast,  and  Lintlaw,  feeling  her 
pitiful  trembling,  knew  that  there  was  some 
great  mystery  to  be  unravelled  here,  and  that 
she  was  their  own  Elsie  still. 

4  Hold  me  close,    Uncle   Davie/  she   said. 


SOS 


CLEARING  AWAY  THE  MISTS.  303 

'  I  never  got  any  letters.  I  wrote  and  wrote 
to  you,  and  then  my  heart  seemed  to  grow 
cold  and  dead.  People's  hearts  don't  break 
in  this  world,  or  mine  had  broken  long,  long 
ago.  Grandmother  is  dead,  and  I  was  on  my 
way  to  the  north  with  some  friends,  when  I 
thought  I  would  like  to  come  just  to  see  why 
you  had  all  forgotten  me.' 

'  There  was  nae  letters  came  here,  Elsie : 
an'  mony,  mony  a  sair  heart  has  been  in  Lint- 
law  ower  ye,'  said  Lintlaw.  '  There  has  been 
black  treachery  somewhere,  my  bairn ;  but 
wheesht,  dinna  shake  like  that.  It'll  be  a' 
richt  noo,  please  God.' 

Elsie  still  clung  convulsively  to  her  uncle, 
as  if  afraid  that  he  too  should  slip  from  her  grasp. 

David  Dalrymple  was  deeply  and  strongly 
moved,  as  he  had  not  been  since  the  death 
of  his  wife  two  years  before.  How  he  had 
loved  the  sweet,  fair  child  who  had  found  a 
home  with  them,  and  what  a  joy  it  was  to 
find  her  still  worthy  of  that  love,  I  cannot  try 
to  tell  you. 

By  and  by  she  grew  calmer,  and  looked  up 
into  his  face  with  great  pathetic  eyes.  Then 
he  saw  how  great  the  change  upon  the  sweet 


304  CARLOWRIE. 


face,  how  worn  and  thin  it  was,  how  aged 
before  its  time.  After  all,  hers  had  been  the 
keener,  more  hopeless  grief. 

'  My  bairn,  what  has  the  ill  English  folk 
dune  to  ye  ?  Ye  are  no'  the  same,'  he  said ; 
and,  to  Davie's  astonishment,  he  saw  his 
father,  with  a  great  gentleness,  stroke  the 
sweet,  sad  face  uplifted  to  his. 

'  It  was  the  waiting  that  did  it,  Uncle 
Davie ;  but  oh,  I  want — I  want  Aunt  Effie ! ' 
she  said,  and,  breaking  from  him,  flung  her- 
self on  the  sofa  and  burst  into  tears.  They 
brought  relief  to  the  overcharged  heart. 

1  But  where  are  all  the  rest  ?  Christian 
will  be  at  the  Manse,  I  suppose  ?  but  Robbie, 
and  Effie,  where  are  they?'  she  asked  at 
length. 

'  Christian  is  not  at  the  Manse  yet,'  said 
Mr.  Dalrymple.  '  When  her  mither  died,  she 
wad  bide  to  fill  her  place  a  wee ;  and  she  has 
filled  it,'  he  added,  with  emotion.  '  This  is 
Miss  Ritchie's  wedding-day,  and  Hew  and 
Christian,  and  Effie  too,  are  at  the  marriage, 
and  Robbie's  in  Douglas's  seed-shop  in  Dal- 
keith,  an'  Sandy's  gafferin'  the  workers,  an' 
here's  Davie.' 


CLEARING  AWAY  THE  MISTS.  305 

'  Christian  not  at  the  Manse  yet !  but — but 
Mr.  Laidlaw  did  not  marry  somebody  else, 
I  hope  ? '  queried  Elsie  eagerly.  She  had 
not  been  prepared  for  so  many  overwhelming 
changes,  and  could  hardly  grasp  them  all. 

A  smile  now  came  upon  Lintlaw's  face,  like 
the  breaking  of  the  sun  through  the  clouds. 

1  Oh  no ;  he's  made  o'  true  stuff,  Elsie. 
An'  noo  that  Effie's  able  to  manage  so  weel, — 
she's  sixteen,  ye  ken, — they're  to  be  mairret 
in  the  spring.' 

'  I  don't  know  what  to  say,  Uncle  Davie. 
How  have  so  many  things  happened  here 
when  nothing  happened  to  me  ? ' 

'  Are  ye  no'  mairret,  Elsie  ?  Maybe  I'm 
speakin'  to  the  Leddy  o'  Traquair  ? '  said 
Lintlaw,  a  sudden  thought  striking  him. 

'  Oh  no,  Uncle  Davie ;  I  am  Elsie  Beatoun 
still,  though  grandmother  was  very  anxious 
that  I  should  drop  my  own  name  and  be 
called  Miss  Traquair/  said  Elsie  mournfully. 

'  The  news  that  yer  marriage  was  to  be,  was 
sent  to  us  by  yer  grandmither,  an'  then  by 
Miss  Hamilton,'  said  Lintlaw.  '  We  thocht 
ye  were  to  be  married  this  August  just  gane 

by.' 

26 


306  CARLOWRIE. 


1  Did  grandmother  write  and  tell  you  I  was  to 
marry  the  Laird  of  Traquair  ? '  queried  Elsie. 

'  She  did  that ;  an'  she  offered  us  money, — 
money,  Elsie,  because  ye  had  had  yer  hame 
at  Lintlaw ;  but  yer  aunt  an'  me  took  nae 
notice  o'  that  letter,  of  course.  It  was  an 
insult  to  oor  love  for  you,  to  the  very  name 
of  Dalrymple.' 

'  And  you  never  got  any  of  my  letters,  Uncle 
Davie  ?  I  am  sure  I  wrote  twenty  or  more.' 

'  Never  ane ;  an'  I'm  sure  there  was  as 
many  written  to  you  frae  here,'  replied  Lintlaw 
sternly. 

'  Then  grandmother  must  have  kept  them 
back.  How  could  she  do  such  a  cruel,  cruel, 
wicked  thing ! ' 

•  The  Lord  only  kens ;  but  she's  deid,  ye 
say,  an'  dootless  by  this  time  has  gotten  her 
reward,'    was    Lintlaw's    brief   reply.       '  But 
come,  my  bairn,  tak'  afif  yer  bannet.     Ye've 
come  to  bide  ;  hame  to  Lintlaw,  as  Davie  cried 
in  at  the  door.      This'  11  be  a  blithe,  blithe 
nicht  when  the  bairns  come  hame.' 

'  Uncle  Davie.'  Elsie's  voice  fell  very  low, 
and  her  pale  face  flushed  deep  crimson. 

*  Weel,  my  bairn.' 


CLEARING  AWAY  THE  MISTS.  307 

1  Shall  I  see  Hew's  wife  to-night  ?  Is  she 
at  the  wedding  too  ?  and  will  she  come  up 
with  them  ?  I — I — don't  think  I  could  bear 
it  just  yet.' 

'  Hew's  wife ! '  Very  comical  to  see  at  that 
moment  was  the  face  of  David  Dalrymple. 
'  Guid  guide  us  a',  lassie,  whatten  ferlie's  that 
ye've  gotten  in  yer  heid  ? ' 

'  Is — is — Hew  not  married,  Uncle  Davie  ?' 

Lintlaw  shook  his  head. 

'  Na,  na ;  Carlowrie's  waitin'  on  its  mistress 
yet,  an'  wha  kens,  she'll  maybe  come  hame 
by  and  by.  Lassie,  my  son  has  never  for- 
gotten ye.  Ye  are  as  dear  to  him  at  this 
meenit  as  ever  ye  were.  I  say  it  wha  ken 
him  best  on  earth.  Many  a  time  my  heart's 
been  sair  for  the  laddie,  but  he  has  manfully 
borne  his  cross.' 

1  Oh,  Uncle  Davie,  they  told  me  he  had 
forgotten  me,  that  he  had  never  loved  me, 
that  he  was  to  be  married  to  Katie  Gray. 
I  believed  it,  uncle,  because  I  never  heard 
from  Hew  or  anybody,'  cried  Elsie,  springing 
to  her  feet,  for  was  not  this  the  crowning 
surprise  of  all  ? 

'This  has  been  an  unco  ravelling,  Elsie/ 


308  CAKLOWRIE. 


said  David  Dalrymple.  '  Thanks  be  to  God, 
it  is  made  plain  at  last.  We  maun  pray  for 
kindly  thochts  o'  her  that's  awa',  but  it's  no  easy.' 

'  Will  they  be  late  at  the  wedding,  uncle  ? ' 
asked  Elsie  by  and  by. 

'  No ;  it  is  a  very  quiet  affair,  an'  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Blair  were  to  leave  by  the  last  train  for 
Edinburgh.  So  the  bairns '11  be  name  afore 
the  darkenin'.' 

Then  Elsie  slipped  away  out  of  the  room 
and  up-stairs,  to  be  alone  for  a  little  with  her 
own  strange  tumult  of  thought.  Joy  and  grief 
were  strangely  intermingled  in  her  heart, — 
joy  that  she  was  not  forgotten  at  Lintlaw ; 
grief  that  dear  Aunt  Effie,  her  more  than 
mother,  had  not  lived  to  see  this  day.  But 
up  yonder  she  knew  all,  thought  Elsie,  as  she 
looked  through  the  south  window  of  the  best 
room  to  the  green  braes  of  Crichtoun,  with  an 
unutterable  sense  of  peace  stealing  over  her 
weary  heart. 

Meanwhile,  all  unconscious  of  what  had 
transpired  at  home,  the  bairns  were  quietly 
enjoying  themselves  in  the  parlour  at  Scots- 
toun,  among  the  friends  gathered  together  to 
see  Miss  Ritchie  married. 


CLEARING  AWAY  THE  MISTS.  309 

Very  nice  did  the  bride  look  in  her  neat, 
well-fitting  brown  silk,  and  very  happy  too  ; 
although  she  confided  to  Christian,  when  she 
went  to  make  ready  for  her  journey, — '  That 
it  was  raither  a  thocht  to  a  body  gettin' 
mairret ;  an'  she  didna  ken  hoo  lassies  could 
flee  into  the  bonds  withoot  muckle  considera- 
tion/ 

Robbie  Blair  looked  his  best,  which  was 
saying  a  good  deal,  and  everybody  said  they 
were  a  fine-looking,  well-matched  pair.  After 
the  carriage  drove  away  with  the  husband  and 
wife,  the  guests  began  to  talk  of  leaving.  A 
few  of  the  gentlemen  remained  to  talk  about 
his  sister's  marriage  with  Geordie  Ritchie,  but 
the  Lintlaw  bairns  went  away,  the  minister 
of  course  accompanying  them.  Christian  and 
Erne  just  wore  their  Sabbath  gowns, — soft 
grey  merino,  relieved  by  knots  of  cherry 
ribbon, — and  very  sweet,  indeed,  did  Christian 
look  in  that  garb.  She  walked  behind  with 
Mr.  Laidlaw,  of  course,  Hew  and  Effie  being 
a  good  way  in  front.  When  they  got  up  the 
road  a  little  bit,  they  saw  their  father  and  the 
laddies  waiting  at  the  gate,  and  Effie  declared 
there  was  somebody  else,— a  woman,  too, — who 


310  CARLOWRIE. 


had  run  away  up  the  path  at  sight  of  them. 
When  they  got  to  the  foot  of  the  brae,  to 
their  astonishment  the  laddies  rent  the  air 
by  a  hearty  cheer. 

'Hurrah!  hurrah!  Elsie's  hame — Elsie's 
corned  hame ! '  they  shouted,  so  loud  that 
even  the  minister  and  Christian  heard,  and 
stood  still  almost  in  affright.  The  face  of 
Hew  grew  as  pale  as  death,  but  just  then  his 
father  came,  and,  taking  him  by  the  arm,  led 
him  on  in  front,  leaving  the  laddies  to  tell 
Effie  and  the  rest  all  about  it.  Briefly  but 
perfectly  Lintlaw  explained  the  whole  story 
to  his  son,  and  it  did  his  heart  good  to  see 
the  look  which  superseded  surprise  in  his 
eyes. 

'Ye'd  better  gang  awa'  an'  see  Elsie  a 
meenit  by  yersel',  Hew,'  said  Lintlaw,  with 
thoughtful  consideration,  'an'  I'll  keep  them 
a'  speakin'  oot  here  a  while  yet.' 

Mechanically  Hew  obeyed.  Dared  he  be- 
lieve it  ?  Could  it  be  that  Elsie  was  come 
back  true  to  him,  to  leave  them  nevermore, 
some  day  to  become  the  mistress  of  Car- 
lowrie  ?  He  walked  like  one  in  a  dream, 
and  like  one  in  a  dream  entered  the  house, 


CLEARING  AWAY  THE  MISTS.  311 

and  walked  through  every  room  till  he  found 
Elsie.  She  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
best  room,  and,  even  in  the  deep  shadow  cast 
all  about  her  by  the  twilight,  he  could  see 
the  look  on  her  face,  and  his  heart  leaped 
to  see  it. 

'  Elsie  !  Elsie ! '  he  said,  and  took  a  step 
towards  her,  and  the  next  moment  he  held 
her  in  his  arms,  her  fair  head  was  pillowed 
on  his  breast;  she  was  his  for  time  and  for 
eternity. 

Surely  that  moment  of  supreme,  unspeak- 
able joy  swept  away  for  ever  all  the  bitter 
memories  of  the  past. 

By  and  by  there  came  a  low  yet  impatient 
knock  at  the  door,  and  the  radiant  face  of 
Christian  peeped  in. 

'  It's  my  turn  now,  Hew,'  she  said,  her  voice 
tremulous  in  its  great  joy.  '  Oh,  Elsie,  Elsie, 
I  aye  said  ye  wad  come  back ! ' 

After  a  little  they  all  went  down  to  the 
parlour,  and  then  what  rejoicings  !  Mr.  Laid- 
law's  earnest  hand-clasp,  Effie's  tearful  yet 
joyful  kiss,  and  the  boisterous  greetings  of 
the  laddies,  were  like  to  overwhelm  Elsie 
altogether.  Seeing  and  feeling  how  dear 


312  CARLOWRIE. 


she  was  to  them  all,  she  wondered  much 
how  she  could  ever  have  brought  herself  to 
think  they  had  forgotten  her.  In  the  middle 
of  all  this  deep,  thankful  joy,  there  was  one 
regret,  one  yearning  unfulfilled,  for  at  the 
supper-table  there  was  an  empty  chair.  And 
yet  all  felt  that  the  spirit  of  the  sweet  mother 
was  hovering  near  them,  that  in  heaven  she 
was  glad  with  and  for  them  all. 

'  I  think  we  will  raise  a  song  of  thanks- 
givin'  to  our  God  the  nicht,  bairns,'  said 
Lintlaw,  when  Christian  handed  him  the  book 
from  the  sideboard.  Then  he  read  slowly  and 
falteringly  the  opening  verse  of  the  hundred 
and  third  Psalm  : — 

'  O  thou  my  soul,  bless  God  the  Lord ; 

And  all  that  in  me  is 
Be  stirred  up  His  holy  name 
To  magnify  and  bless.' 

Then  Christian  raised  the  tune  of  St.  Magnus, 
and  Mr.  Laidlaw's  clear  tenor,  and  Hew's  deep 
bass,  and  the  laddies'  shrill,  hearty  trebles, 
mingled  sweetly  with  hers,  but  neither  Lintlaw 
nor  Elsie  sang  a  note.  To  Elsie's  home-sick 
heart  that  singing  seemed  like  the  very  music 
of  the  heavenly  choir.  How  often  she  had 


CLEARING  A  WA  Y  THE  MISTS.  313 

heard  it  in  her  dreams,  how  often  longed  for 
it  in  her  waking  hours !  The  face  of  Uncle 
Davie  wore  a  far-off  expression,  as  if  his 
thoughts  were  far  away  from  earth  and 
earthly  things.  When  the  singing  ceased, 
he  closed  the  book,  and  said  reverently,  '  Let 
us  pray.' 

That  prayer,  the  outpouring  of  a  thankful 
and  reverent  spirit  before  its  Maker,  calmed 
the  excited  feelings  of  all  kneeling  with  him, 
and  a  great  deep  peace  settled  down  upon 
Lintlaw. 

'Aunt  Effie  is  here,  Christian,'  whispered 
Elsie  when  they  rose. 

Christian  nodded,  and  answered  softly, 
'Ay,  she  sees  an'  kens  a'.  We  hav'na  lost 
mother,  Elsie,  only  she  is  within  the  veil, 
and  we  are  without  for  a  little  while.' 

f 

A  letter  written  and  despatched  to  Edin- 
burgh on  the  morrow  brought  Howard  and 
Marjorie  Traquair  to  Lintlaw  on  the  afternoon 
of  the  following  day. 

Need  I  say  how  warmly  they  were  wel- 
comed, and  how  little  pressure  it  required  to 

make  them  spend  a  week  beneath  the  roof- 

27 


314  CARLOWRIE. 


tree  which  had  sheltered  Elsie  so  long  ?  The 
true,  unaffected  hearts  of  the  brother  and 
sister,  who  remembered  still  the  days  that 
had  been,  when  proverty  and  obscurity  had 
been  their  portion,  not  uplifted  in  any  way  by 
their  changed  fortunes,  were  thoroughly  at 
home  at  Lintlaw. 

It  was  but  natural  that  the  certainty  that 
Elsie's  love  could  never  now  be  his,  saddened 
slightly  the  heart  of  Howard  Traquair.  But 
the  sight  of  Hew  Dalrymple — one  look  into 
his  handsome  face,  on  which  was  written 
sincerity  and  nobleness  of  heart — banished 
selfish  regret,  and  made  him  glad  for  Elsie, 
He  was  worthy  of  her ;  and  so  Howard  told 
him,  with  a  grip  of  the  hand  which  spoke 
volumes. 

Surely  there  never  had  been  such  happy 
days  at  Lintlaw,  and  the  walls  rang  with 
young  voices,  with  trills  of  sweet  laughter, 
with  merry  jest  and  song,  for  Howard  and 
Marjorie  kept  them  all  gay.  But  at  length 
it  came  to  an  end.  The  brother  and  sister 
must  go  to  their  own  home,  leaving  Elsie 
behind.  Loving  regrets  followed  them ;  and 
they  took  with  them  the  promise  that  Christian 


CLEARING  AWAY  THE  'MISTS.  315 

and  Elsie  at  least,  and  as  many  more  as  liked 
to  come,  should  spend  Christmas  at  Traquair ; 
and  of  course  Howard  and  Marjorie  were 
pledged  to  be  present  at  the  double  wedding 
which  in  the  spring  would  take  place  at  Lintlaw. 
That  night,  after  they  were  away,  Hew  and 
Elsie  walked  across  the  stubble  fields  in  the 
bright  harvest  moonlight  to  see  Aunt  Effie's 
grave.  The  turf  was  green  and  fresh,  and 
there  were  flowers  in  bloom  still,  for  many 
loving  hands  tended  that  loved  resting-place. 
A  white  marble  stone,  with  a  dove  resting  on 
the  slab-base,  recorded  that  here  slept 

EUPHEMIA   AGNES    BAILLIE, 

THE  BELOVED   WIFE  OF 

DAVID   DALRYMPLE  OF  LINTLAW; 

and  below  were  the  words,  inscribed  in  letters 
of  gold — 

'  She  being  dead  yet  speaketh.' 
*  Her  works  do  follow  her.' 

Reading  these  words  Elsie's  tears  fell,  but 
they  were  not  tears  of  sorrow.  For  though  the 
beloved  dead  might  not  return  to  them,  they 
would  go  to  her,  and,  as  she  herself  had  said  in 
the  last  days,  there  was  one  family  in  heaven. 


316  CARLOWR1E. 


1  Dear  Aunt  Effie ! '  whispered  Elsie.  '  Oh, 
Hew,  we  must  live  as  she  would  have  us  live, 
and  keep  her  memory  in  our  hearts  to  the  end.' 

'  Ay,'  said  Hew  dreamily.  '  Elsie,  lookin' 
back  on  that  time  when  I  thought  ye  false  to 
me — to  us  all, — I  shudder.  It  was  all  dark. 
Mother  taken  away,  you  lost  to  us ;  every- 
thing seemed  against  me  thegither.  I  even 
said  there  could  be  nae  God,  else  such  things 
wouldna  be.  I  ken  now,  my  darling,  that  I 
needed  that  discipline  to  mak'  me  mair  mind- 
ful that  this  life  is  not  all.  I  can  thank  God 
for  it  now ;  but  oh,  my  Elsie,  how  much 
harder  it  was  for  you  than  me ! '  . 

'Never  mind,  Hew;  it  is  over  now,  thank 
God,'  said  Elsie.  '  Let  us  never  forget  how 
wonderfully  we  have  been  led  hitherto.' 

Then  Elsie  stooped  and  touched  with  her 
lips  the  name  upon  the  stone.  Henceforth 
that  would  be  a  sacred  spot  to  them,  as  it 
was  to  many  another  heart  in  the  parish. 
Hew  also  bent  his  head,  and  Elsie  heard  him 
say  '  Mother,'  just  as  he  would  have  said  it 
had  she  been  standing  with  them.  Then  he 
took  Elsie's  hand  upon  his  strong  arm,  and 
they  went  away  home. 


CONCLUSION. 

N  the  spring,  when  there  were  tender 
buds  on  hedge  and  tree,  when  green 
blades  and  tiny  blossoms  were  peep- 
ing out  everywhere,  the  double  wedding  took 
place  at  Lintlaw.  The  brides  both  wore 
white,  and  it  was  a  question  which  looked 
best.  Christian  was  the  statelier,  more  hand- 
some of  the  two;  but  Elsie,  in  her  girlish 
loveliness,  was  if  anything  more  admired. 
Howard  gave  her  away.  No  brother  ever 
acted  a  more  noble,  generous  part  towards  a 
sister  than  he  displayed  towards  the  woman 
he  had  hoped  to  call  wife.  Sweet  Marjorie 
was  there  as  Elsie's  bridemaiden,  a  capacity 
which  Effie,  of  course,  filled  for  Christian. 
It  was  a  quiet  wedding,  as  befitted  it  should, 
but  there  was  a  deep  and  thankful  joy  which  is 
often  lacking  from  more  imposing  ceremonials. 


318  CARLO  WRIE. 


The  minister  and  his  wife  went  south,  Hew 
and  Elsie  to  a  little  out-of-the-world  corner  on 
the  western  coast,  to  taste  of  the  happiness 
which  dwelt  in  Eden. 

There  was  one  secret  which  Elsie  kept 
from  her  husband  till  she  had  been  many 
years  mistress  of  Carlowrie, — it  related  to 
the  Lady  Anne's  will ;  and  Hew  Dalrymple 
was  a  middle-aged  man  before  he  knew  that 
his  wife  in  marrying  him  had  forfeited  a  great 
estate;  and  then,  of  course,  it  was  too  late 
to  say  anything,  even  if  Elsie  would  have 
listened. 

Within  a  year  after  the  double  wedding 
there  were  great  rejoicings  at  Tyneholm,  when 
the  Laird  brought  home  a  winsome  bride 
from  the  north.  After  that  happy  event  the 
'  big  house '  was  seldom  shut  up,  so  great  was 
the  love  the  young  wife  had  for  it.  What 
wonder,  seeing  that  she  was  surrounded  there 
by  so  many  well-beloved  friends  ? 

After  his  marriage,  Keith  'settled  down,' 
and  was  at  once  the  most  popular  and  the 
best-known  landlord  in  the  Lothians.  In 
Traquair  Howard  dwelt  alone,  and  though 
years  went  by  he  found  no  second  love.  Yet 


CONCLUSION. 


he  was  not  unhappy.  He  was  content  in  the 
fulfilling  of  his  duties,  in  the  affection  of  his 
people,  in  the  love  of  his  many,  many  friends. 
Need  I  say  he  was  vsry  often  in  the  Low- 
lands, and  that  he  had  his  own  room  beneath 
Marjorie's  roof-tree  ?  Mrs.  Hamilton  and 
Edith,  fond  of  travelling  as  of  yore,  roamed 
about  all  the  yeai  round,  until  the  elder 
lady's  health  failed,  and  they  settled  down 
permanently  with  her  bachelor  brother,  Sir 
Harry  Cecil,  at  Alnwick  Hall.  Both  loved 
Keith's  wife,  and  paid  a  yearly  visit  in  the 
summer-time  to  Tyneholm. 

Tyneholm,  Carlowrie,  Lintlaw,  the  Manse, 
dear  names !  hallowed  by  many  sweet  and 
sacred  associations,  there  were  not  happier 
homes  in  all  the  Lothians. 

In  due  course  a  little  Effie  came  home  to 
the  Manse,  who  was  earlv  taught  to  lisp  the 
name  of  '  Grandma,  <uia  to  love  that  precious 
grave.  Elsie's  baby  was  a  boy,  and  very 
proud  she  was  of  him  too,  and  she  hoped 
with  all  her  heart  he  would  grow  up  to  be  as 
good  a  man  as  his  father  and  his  grandfather 
before  him.  And  when  the  son  and  heir 
arrived  at  Tyneholm,  what  rivalry  between 


320  CARLOWR1B. 


the  young  mothers !  What  comparisons  were 
drawn  between  the  babies !  But  of  course, 
since  each  was  perfectly  convinced  that  there 
was  not,  and  never  could  be,  so  lovely  a  child 
as  hers,  each  and  all  were  perfectly  content. 

These  little  ones,  grown  to  manhood  and 
womanhood,  are  among  the  best  and  truest 
Lothian  folk  to-day. 


GLOSSARY  OF  SCOTCH  WORDS. 


A',  all. 

Bricht,  bright. 

Daur,  dare. 

Abe,  be. 

Brither,  brother. 

Daurna,  dare  not. 

Abo  on     (or,     abune), 

Brocht,  brought. 

Daw  tie,     darling  ;     ono 

above. 

Brunt,  burned. 

doated  on. 

Aboot,  about. 

Buik,  book. 

Deave,  deafen. 

Adae,  either. 

Buirdly,   stout;    broad- 

Dee,  die. 

Ae.  one  ;  only. 

made. 

Deed  (or,  deid),  dead. 

Aff,  off. 

Bund,  bound. 

Denty,  dainty. 

Aff-pittin',  patting  off. 

Burn  (or,  burnie),  rivu- 

Didna, did  not. 

Aff-putten,  cast  off. 

let. 

Dinna,  do  not. 

Aiblins,  perhaps. 

But  and  ben,  back  room 

Disna,  does  not. 

Ajn,  own. 

and  sitting-room. 

Div,  do. 

Aince  (or,  ance),  once. 

Byre,  cow-stable  ;  sheep- 

Dochter,  daughter. 

Airth,  earth. 

pen. 

Donnert,  stupid. 

Amang,  among. 

Doo,  dove. 

Ane,  one. 

C  A  i  K  N,    a   mound   of 

Dool,  grief,  trouble. 

Anent,  concerning. 

stones. 

Doon,  down. 

Anither,  another. 

Canna,  can  not. 

Doot,  doubt. 

A'  t  h  i  n  g,   all    things  ; 

Canny,  gentle;  well-dis- 

Douce, grave  ;  serious. 

every  thing. 

posed. 

Dour,  grim. 

Auld,  old. 

Cauld,  cold. 

Dowie,  sad. 

Ava',  at  all. 

Ceevil,  civil. 

Dreich.  slow  ;  tedious. 

Awa',  away. 

Certy,  for  certain,  sure  ; 

D  r  o  o  k  i  t,      drenched  ; 

indeed. 

drowned. 

BADE,  staid. 

Chairge,  charge. 

Droon,  drown. 

Bairn,  child. 

Chap,  tap  ;  thrum. 

Drucken,  drunk. 

Baith,  both. 

Cheep,  chirp  ;  a  word. 

Dumbfoondered,amazed. 

Bannet,  bonnet. 

Chiel  (or,  ehield,)  young 

Dune,  done. 

Bauld,  bold. 

man. 

Dwine,  dwindle. 

Bawbee,  a  half-penny. 

Claes,  clothes. 

Behauden,  beholden. 
Ben,  in. 
Ben-end,  parlor  or  sit- 
ting-room ;  kitchen. 

Claith,  cloth. 
Clash,   talk  ;    converse  ; 
gossip. 
Clud,  cloud. 

EE  (or,  e'e),  eye. 
Een  (or,  e'en),  eyes. 
Eerie,  timorous  ;  afraid. 

ITftfJT*    aflAr 

Bide,  stay. 
Biggin,  building,  house. 
Binna,  be  not;  is  not. 
Birr,  to  make  a  whirring 
noise. 

Coont,  count. 
Coorse,  course. 
Crack,  talk  ;  gossip. 
Cratur,  creature. 
Craw,  crow. 

l.in  I  ,  ant  I. 

Efternune,  afternoon. 
E  m  b  r  o,      Edinboro'  ; 
Edinburgh. 
Eneuch     (or,     enough), 

Bluid,  blood. 
Bode,     same    as    bade, 

Creepie,  stool  ;  hassock. 
Crood,  crowd. 

enough. 
Ettle,  intend  ;   aim   at  ; 

staid. 
Bonnie,  or  bonny,  beau- 

Croon, crown. 
Croose  (or,  crouse,>  pert  ; 

attempt.      ^» 
Eveu  doon,  downright. 

tiful. 

bold. 

Bonnieness,  cleverness. 

Cutty,   short;    small  in 

FAITH  ER,  father. 

Bothy,  hut,  cottage. 

stature. 

Fan,  cake. 

Brae,    a   hill-slope,    ac- 

Fash, trouble  ;  annoy. 

clivity. 

DAE,  do. 

Fashious,  helpless. 

Braw,  fine. 

Daffing,  sporting. 

Faur,  far. 

Brawly,  finely  ;  well. 

Daft,  foolish  ;  mad. 

Faut,  fault. 

Braid,  broad. 

Dauchter,  daughter. 

Fecht,  fight. 

I 

GLOSSARY  OF  SCOTCH  WORDS. 


Feckless,  worthless  ; 

HAE,  have. 

Lave,  remainder  ;  rest. 

feeble. 

Haen,  had. 

Leddy,  lady. 

Fecklessness,      careless- 

Haena, have  not. 

Leal,  "loyal;  faithful. 

ness. 

Hail  (or,  hale),  whole. 

Lee,  lie. 

Fell,  keen  or  keenly. 

Hnirst,  harvest. 

Len',  loan. 

Fend,  provide. 

Hanic,  home. 

Leeve,  live. 

Ferlie,     wonder     (con- 

H a  n  1  1  e,     a     handful  ; 

Licht,  light. 

temptuously);  a  fancy. 

much  ;  many. 

Lichtlie,  sneer  at  ;  treat 

Fesh,  fetch. 

Hasna,  lias  not. 

with  contempt. 

Fit,  foot. 

Hand.  hold. 

Lichtit,  lighted. 

Flichter.  nutter. 

Havena,  have  not. 

Likit,  liked. 

Flooer,  flower. 

Heid,  head. 

Limmer,  a  wanton. 

Flure,  floor. 

Helpit,  helped. 

Lippen,  trust. 

Flyte,  sfold. 

Hinn,  hang. 

Lookit,  looked. 

Foondry,  foundry. 

Minna,  have  not. 

Lug,  ear. 

Forebear    (or,   forbear), 

Hizzie,   young   woman  ; 

Lum,  chimney. 

ancestress  ;  ancestor. 

torn-boy. 

Forbye,  besides. 

Hoo,  how. 

MA,  my. 

Foment,  opposite. 

Hoolet,  owl  ;  owlet. 

Mair,  more. 

Forrit,  forward. 

Hooly,  slowly. 

Maist,  most. 

Foucht,  fought. 

Hooly  !     take     leisure  ; 

Maister,  master. 

Fnie,  from. 

stop! 

Maitter,  matter. 

Freend,  friend. 

Hoose,  house. 

Mane,  fuss  ;  ado. 

Frern,  strange. 

Hopit,  hoped. 

Maun,  must. 

Friclit,  fright. 

Houp,  hope. 

Maunna,  must  not. 

Fule,  fool. 

Howdy-hole,  closet. 

Micht,  might. 

Fusliionless,     incompe- 

Howin, hoeing. 

Midden-dyke,  garden 

tent. 

Hubble,  confusion. 

wall  ;  ditch. 

Mirk,  dark. 

GAE,  go. 

ILK  or  ilka,  each  ;  every. 

Mil  her,  mother. 

Gaed,  went. 

Inlae  (and,  iutil),  into. 

Mony,  many. 

Gaffer,  direct. 

Ither,  other. 

Moosie,  mouse. 

Gait,  way. 

Mou',  mouth. 

Gane,'  gone. 

JIMPY,     little  ;      neat  ; 

Muckle,  much. 

Gang,  go. 

slender. 

Muirland,  moor. 

Gar,  make. 

Jist,  just. 

Mune-liclit,  moon-light. 

(lawn,  going. 

Gear,  goods  ;  property. 

KEBBUCK,  a  cheese-cake. 

NA  (or,  nae),  no,  not. 

Genty,  elegantly  formed; 

Keek,    peep;     look 

Nae,  none. 

neat  ;  high-bred. 

sharply. 

Naebody,  nobody. 

Gey,  very  ;  pretty. 

Keepit,  kept. 

Naething,  nothing. 

Gey  an,  very. 

Ken,  know. 

Neebor,  neighbor. 

Gie,  give. 

Kenna,  know  not. 

Needna,  need  not. 

Gieti,  given. 

Kennin',  knowing. 

Neist,  next. 

Gif  (or,  gin),  if. 

Kent     (or,    kenned), 

Nicht,  night. 

Girn,  grin  ;  snarl  at. 

known,  knew. 

Noo,  now  :  at  the  noo, 

G  la  i  ket,  thoughtless  ; 

Kep,  cape. 

at  present  ;  at  once. 

foolish. 

Kintry,  country. 

Glisk,  glimpse. 

Kirn,     harvest     home  ; 

OCHT,  aught. 

Gloaming,  twilight. 

harvest  feast. 

Ongauns,     goings     on  ; 

Gomeril,     fool  ;     dolt  ; 

Kittle,    ticklish  ;    nice  ; 

doings. 

blockhead. 

intricate. 

Ony,  any. 

Goon,  gown. 

Kye,  cows. 

Oo.'yes. 

Gowan,  wild  daisy. 

'Ooman,  woman. 

G  rabbit,  gnibbed. 

LAIRD,  lord  ;  a  land-pro- 

Oor, our. 

Grat,  cried. 

prietor. 

Got    (or,    ooteu),    out  ; 

Grawn,  grand. 

Lairn,  learn. 

out  of. 

Greet,  cry. 

Lanimie,  little  lamb. 

Oucht,  ought. 

G  rue,  shudder;  shiver. 

Lane  (his,  her,  its,  etc.i, 

Ower,  over. 

Grund,  ground. 

alone. 

Oxter,  arm-pit. 

Gude  (or,  guid),  good. 

Lang,  long. 

Gump,  wade. 

Laueh,  laugh. 

PAIDL'T,  paddled. 

ULUSSAXX  W  KfJOTCO.    WORDS.                  HI 

Pat,  pot. 
Patrick    (or,    paitrick), 

Spate,  flood. 
Speer    (or,    spier),   ask 

Unneeborly;     unneigh- 
borly. 

partridge. 

for  ;  inquire. 

Uphaud,  uphold. 

Peety,  pity. 

Speerit,  spirit. 

Pit,  put. 

Stanes,  stones. 

VEKRA,  very. 

Pleeshure,  pleasure. 

Steer,  stare. 

Pooer,  power. 

Stoop,   a    prop  ;    a   post 

WAD  (or,  wud),  would. 

Poo'rless,  powerless. 

fixed  in  the  earth. 

Waddin',  wedding. 

Prig,  cheapen  ;  dispute. 

Stoory,  dusty  ;  stormy. 

Wae,  sorrowful  ;  sad. 

Prood,  proud. 

Stoppit,  slopped. 

Waggit,  wagged. 

Puir,  poor. 

Stour,  dust. 

Wsinlit,  wanted. 

Putteu,  put. 

Stracht     (or,     strecht), 

Wark,  work. 

straight. 

Warld,  world. 

QUATE,  quiet. 

Stravage,     wander      or 

Warst,  worst. 

Quean,   servant  -  maid  ; 

stray. 

Warstle,  struggle. 

young  woman. 

Stude  (or,  studer),  stood. 

Waur,  worse. 

Sune,  soon. 

Weans,  babes  ;  children. 

RAEL,  real. 

Sutten,  set. 

Wechty,  weighty. 

Reek,  smoke. 

Syne,  after  ;  ago. 

Wee,  little. 

Eeem,  run  over. 

Weel.well. 

Richt,  right. 

TAB,  to. 

Whae,  who. 

Rin,  run. 

Tapsalteerie,  topsy- 

Whan, when. 

Roond,  round. 

turvy. 

Whatten,  what;    which 

Roup,  sale. 

Tatties,  potatoes. 

one. 

Rowan,    the    mountain 

Telt,  told. 

Whaur,  where. 

ash. 

Teinpit,  tempted. 

Wheen,    a   number;    a 

Rowth,  plenty. 

Thack,  thatch. 

good  deal. 

Thae,  those. 

Wheesht,  be  calm,  hush. 

SAB,  so. 

Thegither,  together. 

Whiles     (or,     whyles), 

Sair,  sore  ;  very, 

Thocht,  thought. 

sometimes. 

Saut,  salt. 

Thole,  bear;  endure. 

Whing,  cry  ;  complain  ; 

Scone,  cake. 

Thon,  those. 

fret. 

Scoor,  scour. 

Thowless,    slack  ;    lazy  ; 

Winna,  will  not. 

Shoon,  shoes. 

heedless. 

Withhaud,  withhold. 

Sic  (or,  siccan),  such. 

Tlirapple,  throat;  wind- 

Workit, worked. 

Sicht,  sight. 

pipe. 

Wrang,  wrong. 

Siller,  silver. 

Thraw(or,  throw),  twist; 

Wudna,  would  not. 

Simmer,  summer. 

quarrel  ;  be  cross. 

Wull,  will. 

Sin,  since  ;  after. 

Thrawn,  cross;  perverse; 

Wulliut,  willing. 

Sinsyne,  afterward. 

quarrelsome. 

Wunner,  wonder. 

Skelly,  squint. 

Thrawnness,  perversity. 

Wu»h,  wish. 

Skep,  hive  for  bees. 

Thraid,  thread. 

Slippit,  slipped. 

Till,  to. 

YAMMER    (or,   yaumer), 

Smeddum,  spirit  :   met- 

Toon, town. 

fret  ;  scold. 

tle. 

Twa,  two. 

Yestreeu,    yester   even- 

Snell,   biting;    severe; 

Twal",  twelve. 

ing. 

sharp. 

Yett,  gate. 

Socht,  sought. 

UNKENT,  unknown. 

Yirls,  curls. 

Sodger,  soldier. 

Unco,  very,  strange. 

Yont,  beyond. 

A     000120201     9 


